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Autl|0r 0 National lEfcitum

THE WRITINGS OF

MARK TWAIN
Volume XV

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PROTECTING THE LADIES

FOLLOWING
THE EQUATOR

A JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD
BY

MARK TWAIN

(SAMUEL L. CLEMENS)

IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I

ILLUSTRATED

HARPER & BROTHERS
EDITION

PUBLISHED BY

P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY
New York

Following the Equator. Vol. I

Copyright, 1897 and 1899, by Olivia L. Clemens

Printed in the United States of America

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THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO MY
YOUNG FRIEND HARRY ROGERS. WITH RECOGNITION
OF WHAT HE IS. AND APPREHENSION OF WHAT
HE MAY BECOME UNLESS HE FORM HIMSELF A
LITTLE MORE CLOSELY UPON THE MODEL OF
THE AUTHOR

31. 15 A— M. T.

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

I. We Sail with a Sweet Captain i

II. What Did Poor Brown Do? 12

III. Honolulu the Beautiful 27

IV. I Lose at "Horse Billiards" 44

V. "Recruiting" Laborers — or Slavery? .... 56

VI. How Queensland Exterminates Kanakas . . 63

VII. We Pity the Exploited Fijians 72

VIII. Great Speed of the Moa Bird 80

IX. Weird, New, Startling Australia 89

X. Some Barbarous English Laws 101

XL Sydney — English with American Trimmings ,. 107

XII. Hanuman Stronger than Samson 114

XIII. What Cecil Rhodes Pound in a Shark . . . 118

XIV. Astounding Intercolonial Jealousy .... 131

XV. Wagga-Wagga and the Tichborne Claimant . 137

XVI. Melbourne Cup Day, Greatest of the Year 143

XVII. Australia's Enormous Trade 151

XVIII. Where All Religions Flourish 158

XIX. What the Laughing Jackass is Good For . . 167

XX. An Intermezzo in a Fox-hunt 175

XXI. Arsenic Pudding for Savages 183

XXII. Magic of the Aboriginals 193

XXIII. The Driest Country in the World .... 203

XXIV. Ballarat English Undefiled 211

XXV. The Amazing Mark Twain Club 220

XXVI. What New Zealand Really Is 232

XXVII. Robinson the Conciliator 238

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

XXVIII. The Joke that Made Ed's Fortune .... 250

XXIX. Hobart is the Neatest Town 260

XXX. Nature's Cruelty to the Wooden Caterpillar 268

XXXI. "A Hell of a Hotel at Maryborough" . . 274

XXXII. How Women Help Rule New Zealand . . . 282

XXXIII. The Carlsbad of Australasia 291

XXXIV. I Send an Error by Telepathy 298

XXXV. The Maoris, Patriots and Warriors .... 303

XXXVI. The Poetry of Native Names 310

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

FOLLOWING
THE EQUATOR

CHAPTER I

A man may have no bad habits and have worse.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

THE starting-point of this lecturing-trip around
the world was Paris, where we had been living
a year or two.

We sailed for America, and there made certain
preparations. This took but little time. Two mem-
bers of my family elected to go with me. Also a
carbuncle. The dictionary says a carbuncle is a
kind of jewel. Humor is out of place in a dic-
tionary.

We started westward from New York in mid-
summer, with Major Pond to manage the platform-
business as far as the Pacific. It was warm work,
all the way, and the last fortnight of it was suffo-
catingly smoky, for in Oregon and British Columbia
the forest fires were raging. We had an added
week of smoke at the seaboard, where we were
obliged to wait awhile for our ship. She had been
getting herself ashore in the smoke, and she had to

MARK TWAIN

be docked and repaired. We sailed at last; and so
ended a snail-paced march across the continent,
which had lasted forty days.

We moved westward about mid-afternoon over a
rippled and sparkling summer sea; an enticing sea,
a clean and cool sea, and apparently a welcome sea
to all on board; it certainly was to me, after the
distressful dustings and smokings and swelterings of
the past weeks. The voyage would furnish a three-
weeks holiday, with hardly a break in it. We had
the whole Pacific Ocean in front of us, with nothing
to do but do nothing and be comfortable. The city
of Victoria was twinkling dim in the deep heart of
her smoke-cloud, and getting ready to vanish; and
now we closed the field-glasses and sat down on our
steamer-chairs contented and at peace. But they
went to wreck and ruin under us and brought us to
shame before all the passengers. They had been
furnished by the largest furniture-dealing house in
Victoria, and were worth a couple of farthings a
dozen, though they had cost us the price of honest
chairs. In the Pacific and Indian Oceans one must
still bring his own deck-chair on board or go with-
out, just as in the old forgotten Atlantic times —
those Dark Ages of sea travel.

Ours was a reasonably comfortable ship, with the
customary sea-going fare — plenty of good food
furnished by the Deity and cooked by the devil.
The discipline observable on board was perhaps as
good as it is anywhere in the Pacific and Indian
Oceans. The ship was not very well arranged for
tropical service; but that is nothing, for this is the

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

rule for ships which ply in the tropics. She had an
over-supply of cockroaches, but this is also the rule
with ships doing business in the summer seas — at
least such as have been long in service.

Our young captain was a very handsome man,
tall and perfectly formed, the very figure to show
up a smart uniform's finest effects. He was a man
of the best intentions, and was polite and courteous
even to courtliness. There was a soft grace and fin-
ish about his manners which made whatever place
he happened to be in seem for the moment a
drawing-room. He avoided the smoking-room. He
had no vices. He did not smoke or chew tobacco
or take snuff; he did not swear, or use slang, or
rude, or coarse, or indelicate language, or make
puns, or tell anecdotes, or laugh intemperately, or
raise his voice above the moderate pitch enjoined by
the canons of good form. When he gave an order,
his manner modified it into a request. After dinner
he and his officers joined the ladies and gentlemen
in the ladies' saloon, and shared in the singing and
piano-playing, and helped turn the music. He had
a sweet and sympathetic tenor voice, and used it
with taste and effect. After the music he played
whist there, always with the same partner and op-
ponents, until the ladies' bedtime. The electric
lights burned there as late as the ladies and their
friends might desire, but they were not allowed to
burn in the smoking-room after eleven. There were
many laws on the ship's statute-book, of course;
but, so far as I could see, this and one other were
the only ones that were rigidly enforced. The cap*

3

MARK TWAIN

tain explained that he enforced this one because his
own cabin adjoined the smoking-room, and the
smell of tobacco smoke made him sick. I did not
see how our smoke could reach him, for the smoking-
room and his cabin were on the upper deck, targets
for all the winds that blew; and besides there was
no crack of communication between them, no open-
ing of any sort in the solid intervening bulkhead.
Still, to a delicate stomach even imaginary smoke
can convey damage.

The captain, with his gentle nature, his polish,
his sweetness, his moral and verbal purity, seemed
pathetically out of place in his rude and autocratic
vocation. It seemed another instance of the irony
of fate.

He was going home under a cloud. The passen-
gers knew about his trouble, and were sorry for
him. Approaching Vancouver through a narrow
and difficult passage densely befogged with smoke
from the forest fires, he had had the ill luck to lose
his bearings and get his ship on the rocks. A mat-
ter like this would rank merely as an error with
you and me; it ranks as a crime with the directors
of steamship companies. The captain had been
tried by the Admiralty Court at Vancouver, and its
verdict had acquitted him of blame. But that was
insufficient comfort. A sterner court would examine
the case in Sydney — the Court of Directors, the
lords of a company in whose ships the captain had
served as mate a number of years. This was his
first voyage as captain.

The officers of our ship were hearty and com-

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

pardonable young men, and they entered into the
general amusements and helped the passengers pass
the time. Voyages in the Pacific and Indian Oceans
are but pleasure excursions for all hands. Our pur-
ser was a young Scotchman who was equipped with
a grit that was remarkable. He was an invalid,
and looked it, as far as his body was concerned,
but illness could not subdue his spirit. He was full
of life, and had a gay and capable tongue. To all
appearances he was a sick man without being aware
of it, for he did not talk about his ailments, and his
bearing and conduct were those of a person in robust
health ; yet he was the prey, at intervals, of ghastly
sieges of pain in his heart. These lasted many
hours, and while the attack continued he could
neither sit nor lie. In one instance he stood on his
feet twenty-four hours fighting for his life with
these sharp agonies, and yet was as full of life
and cheer and activity the next day as if nothing
had happened.

The brightest passenger in the ship, and the most
interesting and felicitous talker, was a young Ca-
nadian who was not able to let the whisky bottle
alone. He was of a rich and powerful family, and
could have had a distinguished career and abundance
of effective help toward it if he could have con-
quered his appetite for drink; but he could not do
it, so his great equipment of talent was of no use to
him. He had often taken the pledge to drink no
more, and was a good example of what that sort of
unwisdom can do for a man — for a man with any-
thing short of an iron will. The system is wrong in

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MARK TWAIN

two ways: it does not strike at the root of the
trouble, for one thing, and to make a pledge of any-
kind is to declare war against nature; for a pledge
is a chain that is always clanking and reminding the
wearer of it that he is not a free man.

I have said that the system does not strike at the
root of the trouble, and I venture to repeat that.
The root is not the drinking, but the desire to
drink. These are very different things. The one
merely requires will — and a great deal of it, both
as to bulk and staying capacity — the other merely
requires watchfulness — and for no long time. The
desire of course precedes the act, and should have
one's first attention; it can do but little good to
refuse the act over and over again, always leaving
the desire unmolested, unconquered; the desire will
continue to assert itself, and will be almost sure to
win in the long run. When the desire intrudes, it
should be at once banished out of the mind. One
should be on the watch for it all the time — other-
wise it will get in. It must be taken in time and
not allowed to get a lodgment. A desire constantly
repulsed for a fortnight should die, then. That
should cure the drinking-habit. The system of re-
fusing the mere act of drinking, and leaving the
desire in full force, is unintelligent war tactics, it
seems to me.

I used to take pledges — and soon violate them.
My will was not strong, and I could not help it.
And then, to be tied in any way naturally irks an
otherwise free person and makes him chafe in his
bonds and want to get his liberty. But when I

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

finally ceased from taking definite pledges, and
merely resolved that I would kill an injurious desire,
but leave myself free to resume the desire and the
habit whenever I should choose to do so, I had no
more trouble. In five days I drove out the desire
to smoke and was not obliged to keep watch after
that; and I never experienced any strong desire to
smoke again. At the end of a year and a quarter
of idleness I began to write a book, and presently
found that the pen was strangely reluctant to go. I
tried a smoke to see if that would help me out of
the difficulty. It did. I smoked eight or ten cigars
and as many pipes a day for five months; finished
the book, and did not smoke again until a year had
gone by and another book had to be begun.

I can quit any of my nineteen injurious habits at
any time, and without discomfort or inconvenience.
I think that the Dr. Tanners and those others who
go forty days without eating do it by resolutely
keeping out the desire to eat, in the beginning; and
that after a few hours the desire is discouraged and
comes no more.

Once I tried my scheme in a large medical way.
I had been confined to my bed several days with
lumbago. My case refused to improve. Finally the
doctor said :

"My remedies have no fair chance. Consider
what they have to fight, besides the lumbago. You
smoke extravagantly, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You take coffee immoderately?'*

"Yes."

7

MARK TWAIN

"And some tea?"

"Yes."

"You eat all kinds of things that are dissatisfied
with each other's company?"

"Yes."

"You drink two hot Scotches every night?"

"Yes."

"Very well, there you can see what I have to con-
tend against. We can't make progress the way the
matter stands. You must make a reduction in
these things; you must cut down your consumption
of them considerably for some days."

"I can't, doctor."

"Why can't you?"

"I lack the will-power. I can cut them off en-
tirely, but I can't merely moderate them."

He said that that would answer, and said he would
come around in twenty-four hours and begin work
again. He was taken ill himself and could not
come; but I did not need him. I cut off all those
things for two days and nights; in fact, I cut off all
kinds of food, too, and all drinks except water, and
at the end of the forty-eight hours the lumbago was
discouraged and left me. I was a well man; so I
gave thanks and took to those delicacies again.

It seemed a valuable medical course, and I recom-
mended it to a lady. She had rim down and down
and down, and had at last reached a point where
medicines no longer had any helpful effect upon
her. I said I knew I could put her upon her feet in
a week. It brightened her up, it filled her with
hope, and she said she would do everything I told

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

her to do. So I said she must stop swearing and
drinking and smoking and eating for four days, and
then she would be all right again. And it would
have happened just so, I know it; but she said she
could not stop swearing and smoking and drinking,
because she had never done these things. So there
it was. She had neglected her habits, and hadn't
any. Now that they would have come good, there
were none in stock. She had nothing to fall back
on. She was a sinking vessel, with no freight in
her to throw overboard and lighten ship withal.
Why, even one or two little bad habits could have
saved her, but she was just a moral pauper. When
she could have acquired them she was dissuaded by
her parents, who were ignorant people though
reared in the best society, and it was too late to
begin now. It seemed such a pity; but there was
no help for it. These things ought to be attended
to while a person is young; otherwise, when age
and disease come, there is nothing effectual to fight
them with.

When I was a youth I used to take all kinds of
pledges, and do my best to keep them, but I never
could, because I didn't strike at the root of the
habit — the desire; I generally broke down within
the month. Once I tried limiting a habit. That
worked tolerably well for a while. I pledged myself
to smoke but one cigar a day. I kept the cigar
waiting until bedtime> then I had a luxurious time
with it. But desire persecuted me every day and
all day long; so, within the week I found myself
hunting for larger cigars than I had been used to

9

MARK TWAIN

smoke; then larger ones still, and still larger ones.
Within the fortnight I was getting cigars made for
me — on a yet larger pattern. They still grew and
grew in size. Within the month my cigar had
grown to such proportions that I could have used it
as a crutch. It now seemed to me that a one-cigar
limit was no real protection to a person, so I knocked
my pledge on the head and resumed my liberty.

To go back to that young Canadian. He was a
"remittance-man," the first one I had ever seen or
heard of. Passengers explained the term to me.
They said that dissipated ne'er-do-weels belonging
to important families in England and Canada were
not cast off by their people while there was any
hope of reforming them, but when that last hope
perished at last, the ne'er-do-weel was sent abroad
to get him out of the way. He was shipped off with
just enough money in his pocket — no, in the pur-
ser's pocket — for the needs of the voyage — and
when he reached his destined port he would find a
remittance awaiting him there. Not a large one,
but just enough to keep him a month. A similar
remittance would come monthly thereafter. It was
the remittance-man's custom to pay his month's
board and lodging straightway — a duty which his
landlord did not allow him to forget — then spree
away the rest of his money in a single night, then
brood and mope and grieve in idleness till the next
remittance came. It is a pathetic life.

We had other remittance-men on board, it was
said. At least they said they were R. M.'s. There
were two. But they did not resemble the Canadian;

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

they lacked his tidiness, and his brains, and his
gentlemanly ways, and his resolute spirit, and his
humanities and generosities. One of them was a
lad of nineteen or twenty, and he was a good deal
of a ruin, as to clothes, and morals, and general
aspect. He said he was a scion of a ducal house
in England, and had been shipped to Canada for
the house's relief, that he had fallen into trouble
there, and was now being shipped to Australia. He
said he had no title. Beyond this remark he was
economical of the truth. The first thing he did in
Australia was to get into the lockup, and the next
thing he did was to proclaim himself an earl in the
police court in the morning and fail to prove it.

il

CHAPTER II

When in doubt, tell the truth. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

A BOUT four days out from Victoria we plunged
i~\ into hot weather, and all the male passengers
put on white linen clothes. One or two days later
we crossed the 25th parallel of north latitude, and
then, by order, the officers of the ship laid away
their blue uniforms and came out in white linen
ones. All the ladies were in white by this time.
This prevalence of snowy costumes gave the prom-
enade deck an invitingly cool and cheerful and
picknicky aspect.

From my diary:

There are several sorts of ills in the world from
which a person can never escape altogether, let him
journey as far as he will. One escapes from one
breed of an ill only to encounter another breed of
it. We have come far from the snake liar and the
fish liar, and there was rest and peace in the thought ;
but now we have reached the realm of the boomerang
liar, and sorrow is with us once more. The first
officer has seen a man try to escape from his enemy
by getting behind a tree; but the enemy sent his
boomerang sailing into the sky far above and beyond
the tree; then it turned, descended, and killed the
man. The Australian passenger has seen this thing

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

done to two men, behind two trees — and by the one
arrow. This being received with a large silence that
suggested doubt, he buttressed it with the statement
that his brother once saw the boomerang kill a bird
away off a hundred yards and bring it to the thrower.
But these are ills which must be borne. There is
no other way.

The talk passed from the boomerang to dreams —
usually a fruitful subject, afloat or ashore — but this
time the output was poor. Then it passed to in-
stances of extraordinary memory — with better re-
sults. Blind Tom, the negro pianist, was spoken of,
and it was said that he could accurately play any
piece of music, howsoever long and difficult, after
hearing it once; and that six months later he could
accurately play it again, without having touched it
in the interval. One of the most striking of the
stories told was furnished by a gentleman who had
served on the staff of the Viceroy of India. He
read the details from his note-book, and explained
that he had written them down, right after the con-
summation of the incident which they described,
because he thought that if he did not put them down
in black and white he might presently come to think
he had dreamed them or invented them.

The Viceroy was making a progress, and among
the shows offered by the Maharajah of Mysore for
his entertainment was a memory-exhibition. The
Viceroy and thirty gentlemen of his suite sat in a
row, and the memory-expert, a high-caste Brahmin,
was brought in and seated on the floor in front of
them. He said he knew but two languages, the

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MARK TWAIN

English and his own, but would not exclude any
foreign tongue from the tests to be applied to his
memory. Then he laid before the assemblage his
program — a sufficiently extraordinary one. He pro-
posed that one gentleman should give him one word
of a foreign sentence, and tell him its place in the
sentence. He was furnished with the French word
est, and was told it was second in a sentence of three
words. The next gentleman gave him the German
word verloren and said it was the third in a sentence
of four words. He asked the next gentleman for
one detail in a sum in addition; another for one
detail in a sum of subtraction; others for single
details in mathematical problems of various lands;
he got them. Intermediates gave him single words
from sentences in Greek, Latin, Spanish, Portuguese,
Italian, and other languages, and told him their
places in the sentences. When at last everybody
had furnished him a single rag from a foreign sen-
tence or a figure from a problem, he went over the
ground again, and got a second word and a second
figure and was told their places in the sentences
and the sums; and so on and so on. He went over
the ground again and again until he had collected
all the parts of the sums and all the parts of the
sentences — and all in disorder, of course, not in
their proper rotation. This had occupied two hours.
The Brahmin now sat silent and thinking, awhile,
then began and repeated all the sentences, placing
the words in their proper order, and untangled the
disordered arithmetical problems and gave accurate
answers to them all.

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

In the beginning he had asked the company to
throw almonds at him during the two hours, he to
remember how many each gentleman had thrown;
but none were thrown, for the Viceroy said that the
test would be a sufficiently severe strain without
adding that burden to it.

General Grant had a fine memory for all kinds of
things, including even names and faces, and I could
have furnished an instance of it if I had thought of
it. The first time I ever saw him was early in his
first term as President. I had just arrived in
Washington from the Pacific coast, a stranger and
wholly unknown to the public, and was passing the
White House one morning when I met a friend, a
Senator from Nevada. He asked me if I would
like to see the President. I said I should be very
glad; so we entered. I supposed that the President
would be in the midst of a crowd, and that I could
look at him in peace and security from a distance,
as another stray cat might look at another king.
But it was in the morning, and the Senator was
using a privilege of his office which I had not heard
of — the privilege of intruding upon the Chief Magis-
trate's working-hours. Before I knew it, the Senator
and I were in the presence, and there was none
there but we three. General Grant got slowly up
from his table, put his pen down, and stood before
me with the iron expression of a man who had
not smiled for seven years, and was not intending
to smile for another seven. He looked me steadily
in the eyes — mine lost confidence and fell. I had
never confronted a great man before, and was in

IS

MARK TWAIN

a miserable state of funk and inefficiency. The
Senator said :

"Mr. President, may I have the privilege of
introducing Mr. Clemens?"

The President gave my hand an unsympathetic
wag and dropped it. He did not say a word, but
just stood. In my trouble I could not think of any-
thing to say, I merely wanted to resign. There was
an awkward pause, a dreary pause, a horrible pause.
Then I thought of something, and looked up into
that unyielding face, and said timidly:

"Mr. President, I — I am embarrassed. Are you?"

His face broke — just a little — a wee glimmer, the
momentary flicker of a summer-lightning smile, sev-
en years ahead of time — and I was out and gone as
soon as it was.

Ten years passed away before I saw him the sec-
ond time. Meantime I was become better known;
and was one of the people appointed to respond to
toasts at the banquet given to General Grant in Chi-
cago by the Army of the Tennessee when he came
back from his tour around the world. I arrived
late at night and got up late in the morning. All
the corridors of the hotel were crowded with people
waiting to get a glimpse of General Grant when he
should pass to the place whence he was to review
the great procession. I worked my way by the
suite of packed drawing-rooms, and at the corner of
the house I found a window open where there was a
roomy platform decorated with flags, and carpeted.
I stepped out on it, and saw below me millions of
people blocking all the streets, and other millions

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

caked together in all the windows and on all the
housetops around. These masses took me for Gen-
eral Grant, and broke into volcanic explosions and
cheers; but it was a good place to see the procession,
and I stayed. Presently I heard the distant blare
of military music, and far up the street I saw the
procession come in sight, cleaving its way through
the huzzaing multitudes, with Sheridan, the most
martial figure of the War, riding at its head in the
dress uniform of a Lieutenant-General.

And now General Grant, arm-in-arm with Major
Carter Harrison, stepped out on the platform, fol-
lowed two and two by the badged and uniformed
reception committee. General Grant was looking
exactly as he had looked upon that trying occa-
sion of ten years before — all iron and bronze self-
possession. Mr. Harrison came over and led me to
the General and formally introduced me. Before I
could put together the proper remark, General Grant
said:

"Mr. Clemens, I am not embarrassed. Are you?"
— and that little seven-year smile twinkled across
his face again.

Seventeen years have gone by since then, and
to-day, in New York, the streets are a crush of people
who are there to honor the remains of the great
soldier as they pass to their final resting-place under
the monument; and the air is heavy with dirges and
the boom of artillery, and all the millions of America
are thinking of the man who restored the Union and
the flag, and gave to democratic government a new
lease of life, and, as we may hope and do believe, a

17

MARK TWAIN

permanent place among the beneficent institutions
of men.

We had one game in the ship which was a good
time-passer — at least it was at night in the smoking-
room when the men were getting freshened up from
the day's monotonies and dullnesses. It was the
completing of non-complete stories. That is to say,
a man would tell all of a story except the finish,
then the others would try to supply the ending out
of their own invention. When every one who wanted
a chance had had it, the man who had introduced
the story would give it its original ending — then
you could take your choice. Sometimes the new
endings turned out to be better than the old one.
But the story which called out the most persistent
and determined and ambitious effort was one which
had no ending, and so there was nothing to compare
the new-made endings with. The man who told it
said he could furnish the particulars up to a certain
point only, because that was as much of the tale
as he knew. He had read it in a volume of sketches
twenty-five years ago, and was interrupted before
the end was reached. He would give any one fifty
dollars who would finish the story to the satisfac-
tion of a jury to be appointed by ourselves. We
appointed a jury and wrestled with the tale. We
invented plenty of endings, but the jury voted them
all down. The jury was right. It was a tale which
the author of it may possibly have completed sat-
isfactorily, and if he really had that good fortune
I would like to know what the ending was. Any
ordinary man win find that the story's strength is

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

in its middle, and that there is apparently no way
to transfer it to the close, where of course it ought
to be. In substance the storiette was as follows:

John Brown, aged thirty-one, good, gentle, bashful, timid,
lived in a quiet village in Missouri. He was superintendent of
the Presbyterian Sunday-school. It was but a humble distinc-
tion; still, it was his only official one, and he was modestly proud
of it and was devoted to its work and its interests. The extreme
kindliness of his nature was recognized by all; in fact, people
said that he was made entirely out of good impulses and bash-
fulness; that he could always be counted upon for help when it
was needed, and for bashfulness both when it was needed, and
when it wasn't.

Mary Taylor, twenty-three, modest, sweet, winning, and in
character and person beautiful, was all in all to him. And he
was very nearly all in all to her. She was wavering, his hopes
were high. Her mother had been in opposition from the first.
But she was wavering, too; he could see it. She was being
touched by his warm interest in her two charity prot6g£s and by
his contributions toward their support. These were two forlorn
and aged sisters who lived in a log hut in a lonely place up a
cross-road four miles from Mrs. Taylor's farm. One of the
sisters was crazy, and sometimes a little violent, but not often.

At last the time seemed ripe for a final advance, and Brown
gathered his courage together and resolved to make it. He
would take along a contribution of double the usual size, and
win the mother over; with her opposition annulled, the rest of
the conquest would be sure and prompt.

He took to the road in the middle of a placid Sunday after-
noon in the soft Missourian summer, and he was equipped proper-
ly for his mission. He was clothed all in white linen, with a
blue ribbon for a necktie, and he had on dressy tight boots. His
horse and buggy were the finest that the livery-stable could fur-
nish. The lap-robe was of white linen, it was new, and it had a
hand-worked border that could not be rivaled in that region for
beauty and elaboration.

When he was four miles out on the lonely road and was walk-
ing his horse over a wooden bridge, his straw hat blew off and
fell in the creek, and floated down and lodged against a bar.

19

MARK TWAIN

He did not quite know what to do. He must have the hat, that
was manifest; but how was he to get it?

Then he had an idea. The roads were empty, nobody was
stirring. Yes, he would risk it. He led the horse to the road-
side and set it to cropping the grass; then he undressed and put
his clothes in the buggy, petted the horse a moment to secure
its compassion and its loyalty, then hurried to the stream. He
swam out and soon had the hat. When he got to the top of the
bank the horse was gone!

His legs almost gave way under him. The horse was walking
leisurely along the road. Brown trotted after it, saying, "Whoa,
whoa, there's a good fellow"; but whenever he got near enough
to chance a jump for the buggy, the horse quickened its pace a
little and defeated him. And so this went on, the naked man
perishing with anxiety, and expecting every moment to see peo-
ple come in sight. He tagged on and on, imploring the horse,
beseeching the horse, till he had left a mile behind him, and was
closing up on the Taylor premises; then at last he was success-
ful, and got into the buggy. He flung on his shirt, his necktie,
and his coat; then reached for — but he was too late; he sat sud-
denly down and pulled up the lap-robe, for he saw some one
coming out of the gate — a woman, he thought. He wheeled the
horse to the left, and struck briskly up the cross-road. It was
perfectly straight, and exposed on both sides; but there were
woods and a sharp turn three miles ahead, and he was very
grateful when he got there. As he passed around the turn he
slowed down to a walk, and reached for his tr — too late again.

He had come upon Mrs. Enderby, Mrs. Glossop, Mrs. Taylor,
and Mary. They were on foot, and seemed tired and excited.
They came at once to the buggy and shook hands, and all spoke
at once, and said, eagerly and earnestly, how glad they were
that he was come, and how fortunate it was. And Mrs. Ender-
by said, impressively:

"It looks like an accident, his coming at such a time; but let
no one profane it with such a name; he was sent — sent from on
high."

They were all moved, and Mrs. Glossop said in an awed voice:

"Sarah Enderby, you never said a truer word in your life.
This is no accident, it is a special Providence. He was sent. He
is an angel — an angel as truly as ever angel was — an angel of
deliverance. / say angel, Sarah Enderby, and will have no

20

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

other word. Don't let any one ever say to me again, that there's
no such thing as special Providences; for if this isn't one, let
them account for it that can."

"I know it's so," said Mrs. Taylor, fervently. "John Brown,
I could worship you; I could go down on my knees to you.
Didn't something tell you — didn't you feel that you were sent?
I could kiss the hem of your lap-robe."

He was not able to speak; he was helpless with shame and
fright. Mrs. Taylor went on:

"Why, just look at it all around, Julia Glossop. Any person
can see the hand of Providence in it. Here at noon what do we
see? We see the smoke rising. I speak up and say, 'That's the
Old People's cabin afire.' Didn't I, Julia Glossop?"

"The very words you said, Nancy Taylor. I was as close to
you as I am now, and I heard them. You may have said hut
instead of cabin, but in substance it's the same. And you were
looking pale, too."

"Pale? I was that pale that if — why, you just compare it
with this lap-robe. Then the next thing I said was, 'Mary Tay-
lor, tell the hired man to rig up the team — we'll go to the rescue.'
And she said, 'Mother, don't you know you told him he could
drive to see his people, and stay over Sunday?' And it was just
so. I declare for it, I had forgotten it. 'Then,' said I, 'we'll go
afoot.' And go we did. And found Sarah Enderby on the
road."

"And we all went together," said Mrs. Enderby. "And found
the cabin set fire and burnt down by the crazy one, and the poor
old things so old and feeble that they couldn't go afoot. And
we got them to a shady place and made them as comfortable as
we could, and began to wonder which way to turn to find some
way to get them conveyed to Nancy Taylor's house. And I
spoke up and said — now what did I say? Didn't I say, 'Provi-
dence will provide'?"

"Why sure as you live, so you did! I had forgotten it."

"So had I," said Mrs. Glossop and Mrs. Taylor; "but you
certainly said it. Now wasn't that remarkable?"

" Yes, I said it. And then we went to Mr. Moseley's, two miles,
and all of them were gone to the camp-meeting over on Stony
Fork; and then we came all the way back, two miles, and then
here, another mile — and Providence has provided. You see it
yourselves."

21

MARK TWAIN

They gazed at each other awe-struck, and lifted their hands
and said in unison:

"It's per-fectly wonderful."

"And then," said Mrs. Glossop, "what do you think we had
better do — let Mr. Brown drive the Old People to Nancy Tay-
lor's one at a time, or put both of them in the buggy, and him
lead the horse?"

Brown gasped.

"Now, then, that's a question," said Mrs. Enderby. "You
see, we are all tired out, and any way we fix it it's going to be
difficult. For if Mr. Brown takes both of them, at least one of us
must go back to help him, for he can't load them into the buggy
by himself, and they so helpless."

"That is so," said Mrs. Taylor. "It doesn't look — oh, how
would this do! — one of us drive there with Mr. Brown, and the
rest of you go along to my house and get things ready. I'll go
with him. He and I together can lift one of the Old People into
the buggy; then drive her to my house and — "

"But who will take care of the other one?" said Mrs. Ender-
by. "We mustn't leave her there in the woods alone, you know
— especially the crazy one. There and back is eight miles, you
see."

They had all been sitting on the grass beside the buggy for a
while, now, trying to rest their weary bodies. They fell silent a
moment or two, and struggled in thought over the baffling situa-
tion; then Mrs. Enderby brightened and said:

"I think I've got the idea, now. You see, we can't walk any
more. Think what we've done; four miles there, two to Mose-
ley's, is six, then back to here — nine miles since noon, and not a
bite to eat: I declare I don't see how we've done it; and as for
me, I am just famishing. Now, somebody's got to go back, to
help Mr. Brown — there's no getting around that; but whoever
goes has got to ride, not walk. So my idea is this: one of us
to ride back with Mr. Brown, then ride to Nancy Taylor's house
with one of the Old People, leaving Mr. Brown to keep the other
old one company, you all to go now to Nancy's and rest and wait;
then one of you drive back and get the other one and drive her
to Nancy's, and Mr. Brown walk."

"Splendid!" they all cried. "Oh, that will do— that will
answer perfectly." And they ail said that Mrs. Enderby had
the best head for planning in the company; and they said that

22

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

they wondered that they hadn't thought of this simple plan
themselves. They hadn't meant to take back the compliment,
good simple souls, and didn't know they had done it. After a
consultation it was decided that Mrs. Enderby should drive
back with Brown, she being entitled to the distinction because
she had invented the plan. Everything now being satisfac-
torily arranged and settled, the ladies rose, relieved and happy,
and brushed down their gowns, and three of them started home-
ward; Mrs. Enderby set her foot on the buggy step and was
about to climb in, when Brown found a remnant of his voice
and gasped out —

"Please, Mrs. Enderby, call them back — I am very weak; I
can't walk, I can't indeed."

"Why, dear Mr. Brown! You do look pale; I am ashamed of
myself that I didn't notice it sooner. Come back — all of you!
Mr. Brown is not well. Is there anything I can do for you,
Mr. Brown — I'm real sorry. Are you in pain?"

"No, madam, only weak; lam not sick, but only just weak
— lately; not long, but just lately."

The others came back, and poured out their sympathies and
commiserations, and were full of self-reproaches for not having
noticed how pale he was. And they at once struck out a new
plan, and soon agreed that it was by far the best of all. They
would all go to Nancy Taylor's house and see to Brown's needs
first. He could lie on the sofa in the parlor, and while Mrs.
Taylor and Mary took care of him the other two ladies would
take the buggy and go and get one of the Old People, and leave
one of themselves with the other one, and —

By this time, without any solicitation, they were at the horse's
head and were beginning to turn him around. The danger was
imminent, but Brown found his voice again and saved himself.
He said —

"But, ladies, you are overlooking something which makes the
plan impracticable. You see, if you bring one of them home,
and one remains behind with the other, there will be three per-
sons there when one of you comes back for that other, for some
one must drive the buggy back, and three can't come home
in it."

They all exclaimed, "Why, sure-ly, that is so!" and they were
all perplexed again.

"Dear, dear, what can we do?" said Mrs. Glossop; "it is the

23

MARK TWAIN

most mixed-up thing that ever was. The fox and the goose and
the corn and things — oh, dear, they are nothing to it."

They sat wearily down once more, to further torture their
tormented heads for a plan that would work. Presently Mary
offered a plan; it was her first effort. She said:

"I am young and strong, and am refreshed, now. Take Mr.
Brown to our house, and give him help — you see how plainly he
needs it. I will go back and take care of the Old People; I can
be there in twenty minutes. You can go on and do what you
first started to do — wait on the main road at our house until
somebody comes along with a wagon; then send and bring away
the three of us. You won't have to wait long; the farm-
ers will soon be coming back from town now. I will keep
old Polly patient and cheered up — the crazy one doesn't
need it."

This plan was discussed and accepted; it seemed the best
that could be done, in the circumstances, and the Old People
must be getting discouraged by this time.

Brown felt relieved, and was deeply thankful. Let him once
get to the main road and he would find a way to escape.

Then Mrs. Taylor said:

"The evening chill will be coming on, pretty soon, and those
poor old burnt-out things will need some kind of covering. Take
the lap-robe with you, dear."

"Very well, Mother, I will."

She stepped to the buggy and put out her hand to take it— <

That was the end of the tale. The passenger who
told it said that when he read the story twenty-five
years ago in a train he was interrupted at that
point — the train jumped off a bridge.

At first we thought we could finish the story quite
easily, and we set to work with confidence; but it
soon began to appear that it was not a simple thing,
but difficult and baffling. This was on account of
Brown's character — great generosity and kindliness,
but complicated with unusual shyness and diffidence,
particularly in the presence of ladies. There was

24

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

his love for Mary, in a hopeful state but not yet
secure — just in a condition, indeed, where its affair
must be handled with great tact, and no mistakes
made, no offense given. And there was the mother —
wavering, half willing — by adroit and flawless diplo-
macy to be won over, now, or perhaps never at all.
Also, there were the helpless Old People yonder in
the woods waiting — their fate and Brown's happiness
to be determined by what Brown should do within
the next two seconds. Mary was reaching for the
lap-robe; Brown must decide — there was no time to
be lost.

Of course none but a happy ending of the story
would be accepted by the jury; the finish must find
Brown in high credit with the ladies, his behavior
without blemish, his modesty unwounded, his char-
acter for self-sacrifice maintained, the Old People
rescued through him, their benefactor, all the party
proud of him, happy in him, his praises on all their
tongues.

We tried to arrange this, but it was beset with
persistent and irreconcilable difficulties. We saw
that Brown's shyness would not allow him to give
up the lap-robe. This would offend Mary and her
mother; and it would surprise the other ladies, partly
because this stinginess toward the suffering Old
People would be out of character with Brown, and
partly because he was a special Providence and could
not properly act so. If asked to explain his conduct,
his shyness would not allow him to tell the truth,
and lack of invention and practice would find him
incapable of contriving a lie that would wash. We

25

MARK TWAIN

worked at the troublesome problem until three in
the morning.

Meantime Mary was still reaching for the lap-
robe. We gave it up, and decided to let her continue
to reach. It is the reader's privilege to determine
for himself how the thing came out.

26

Vol. 15 A— M. T.

CHAPTER III

' It is more trouble to make a maxim than it is to do right.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

ON the seventh day out we saw a dim vast bulk
standing up out of the wastes of the Pacific
and knew that that spectral promontory was Dia-
mond Head, a piece of this world which I had not
seen before for twenty-nine years. So we were near-
ing Honolulu, the capital city of the Sandwich Islands
— those islands which to me were Paradise; a Para-
dise which I had been longing all those years to see
again. Not any other thing in the world could have
stirred me as the sight of that great rock did.

In the night we anchored a mile from shore.
Through my port I could see the twinkling lights of
Honolulu and the dark bulk of the mountain-range
that stretched away right and left. I could not
make out the beautiful Nuuana valley, but I knew
where it lay, and remembered how it used to look in
the old times. We used to ride up it on horseback
in those days — we young people — and branch off and
gather bones in a sandy region where one of the
first Kamehameha's battles was fought. He was
a remarkable man, for a king; and he was also a
remarkable man for a savage. He was a mere
kinglet and of little or no consequence at the time
of Captain Cook's arrival in 1777; but about four

Vol.15 2' B— M. T.

MARK TWAIN

•y'r&^iv f^&tjzs- (he~&-/'C.

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"^It-gAJ-C-^/

Jrf «?» «p^~-^£Lyi«jg4

FACSIMILE PAGE FROM THE AUTHOR'S NOTE-BOOK

28

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

years afterward he conceived the idea of enlarging
his sphere of influence. That is a courteous mod-
ern phrase which means robbing your neighbor — for
your neighbor's benefit; and the great theater of its
benevolences is Africa. Kamehameha went to war,
and in the course of ten years he whipped out all the
other kings and made himself master of every one
of the nine or ten islands that form the group. But
he did more than that. He bought ships, freighted
them with sandalwood and other native products,
and sent them as far as South America and China;
he sold to his savages the foreign stuffs and tools
and utensils which came back in these ships, and
started the march of civilization. It is doubtful if
the match to this extraordinary thing is to be found
in the history of any other savage. Savages are
eager to learn from the white man any new way to
kill each other, but it is not their habit to seize with
avidity and apply with energy the larger and nobler
ideas which he offers them. The details of Kame-
hameha's history show that he was always hospitably
ready to examine the white man's ideas, and that
he exercised a tidy discrimination in making his se-
lections from the samples placed on view.

A shrewder discrimination than was exhibited by
his son and successor, Liholiho, I think. Liholiho
could have qualified as a reformer, perhaps, but as
a king he was a mistake. A mistake because he
tried to be both king and reformer. This is mixing
fire and gunpowder together. A king has no proper
business with reforming. His best policy is to keep
things as they are; and if he can't do that, he ought

29

MARK TWAIN

to try to make them worse than they are. This is
not guesswork; I have thought over this matter a
good deal, so that if I should ever have a chance to
become a king I would know how to conduct the
business in the best way.

When Liholiho succeeded his father he found
himself possessed of an equipment of royal tools and
safeguards which a wiser king would have known
how to husband, and judiciously employ, and make
profitable. The entire country was under the one
scepter, and his was that scepter. There was an
Established Church, and he was the head of it.
There was a Standing Army, and he was the head of
that ; an Army of one hundred and fourteen privates
under command of twenty-seven Generals and a
Field Marshal. There was a proud and ancient
Hereditary Nobility. There was still one other
asset. This was the tabu — an agent endowed with
a mysterious and stupendous power, an agent not
found among the properties of any European mon-
arch, a tool of inestimable value in the business.
Liholiho was headmaster of the tabu. The tabu
was the most ingenious and effective of all the in-
ventions that had ever been devised for keeping a
people's privileges satisfactorily restricted.

It required the sexes to live in separate houses.
It did not allow people to eat in either house; they
must eat in another place. It did not allow a man's
women-folk to enter his house. It did not allow the
sexes to eat together; the men must eat first, and
the women must wait on them. Then the women
could eat what was left — if anything was left — and

30

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

wait on themselves. I mean, if anything of a coarse
or unpalatable sort was left, the women could have
it# But not the good things, the fine things, the
choice things, such as pork, poultry, bananas, cocoa-
nuts, the choicer varieties of fish, and so on. By
the tabu, all these were sacred to the men; the
women spent their lives longing for them and won-
dering what they might taste like; and they died
without finding out.

These rules, as you see, were quite simple and
clear. It was easy to remember them; and useful.
For the penalty for infringing any rule in the whole
list was death. Those women easily learned to put
up with shark and taro and dog for a diet when
' the other things were so expensive.

It was death for any one to walk upon tabu'd
ground; or defile a tabu'd thing with his touch; or
fail in due servility to a chief; or step upon the
king's shadow. The nobles and the king and the
priests were always suspending little rags here and
there and yonder, to give notice to the people that
the decorated spot or thing was tabu, and death
lurking near. The struggle for life was difficult and
chancy in the islands in those days.

Thus advantageously was the new king situated.
Will it be believed that the first thing he did was to
destroy his Established Church, root and branch?
He did indeed do that. To state the case figura-
tively, he was a prosperous sailor who burnt his
ship and took to a raft. This Church was a hor-
rid thing. It heavily oppressed the people ; it kept
them always trembling in the gloom of mysterious

31

MARK TWAIN

threatenings ; it slaughtered them in sacrifice before
its grotesque idols of wood and stone; it cowed
them, it terrorized them, it made them slaves to its
priests, and through the priests to the king. It was
the best friend a king could have, and the most
dependable. To a professional reformer who should
annihilate so frightful and so devastating a power
as this Church, reverence and praise would be due ;
but to a king who should do it, could properly be
due nothing but reproach ; reproach softened by sor-
row; sorrow for his unfitness for his position.

He destrc^ed his Established Church, and his
kingdom is a republic to-day, in consequence of
that act.

When he destroyed the Church and burned the
idols he did a mighty thing for civilization and for
his people's weal — but it was not "business." It
was unkingly, it was inartistic. It made trouble for
his line. The American missionaries arrived while
the burned idols were still smoking. They found
the nation without a religion, and they repaired the
defect. They offered their own religion and it was
gladly received. But it was no support to arbitrary
kingship, and so the kingly power began to weaken
from that day. Forty-seven years later, when I
was in the islands, Kamehameha V. was trying to
repair Liholiho's blunder, and not succeeding. He
had set up an Established Church and made himself
the head of it. But it was only a pinchbeck thing,
an imitation, a bauble, an empty show. It had no
power, no value for a king. It could not harry or
burn or slay, it in no way resembled the admirable

32

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

machine which Liholiho destroyed. It was an Es-
tablished Church without an Establishment ; all the
people were Dissenters.

Long before that, the kingship had itself become
but a name, a show. At an early day the mission-
aries had turned it into something very much like a
republic; and here lately the business whites have
turned it into something exactly like it.

In Captain Cook's time (1778), the native popula-
tion of the islands was estimated at 400,000; in
1836 at something short of 200,000; in 1866 at
50,000; it is to-day, per census, 25,000 All intelli-
gent people praise Kamehameha I. and Liholiho for
conferring upon the people the great boon of civiliza-
tion. I would do it myself, but my intelligence is
out of repair, now, from overwork.

When I was in the islands nearly a generation ago,
I was acquainted with a young American couple who
had among their belongings an attractive little son of
the age of seven — attractive but not practicably com-
panionable with me, because he knew no English.
He had played from his birth with the little Kanakas
on his father's plantation, and had preferred their
language and would learn no other. The family
removed to America a month after I arrived in the
islands, and straightway the boy began to lose his
Kanaka and pick up English. By the time he was
twelve he hadn't a word of Kanaka left ; the language
had wholly departed from his tongue and from his
comprehension. Nine years later, when he was
twenty-one, I came upon the family in one of the
lake towns of New York, and the mother told me

33

MARK TWAIN

about an adventure which her son had been having.
By trade he was now a professional diver. A
passenger-boat had been caught in a storm on the
lake, and had gone down, carrying her people with
her. A few days later the young diver descended,
with his armor on, and entered the berth-saloon of
the boat, and stood at the foot of the companionway,
with his hand on the rail, peering through the dim
water. Presently something touched him on the
shoulder, and he turned and found a dead man
swaying and bobbing about him and seemingly
inspecting him inquiringly. He was paralyzed with
fright. His entry had disturbed the water, and now
he discerned a number of dim corpses making for
him and wagging their heads and swaying their
bodies like sleepy people trying to dance. His
senses forsook him, and in that condition he was
drawn to the surface. He was put to bed at home,
and was soon very ill. During some days he had
seasons of delirium which lasted several hours at a
time ; and while they lasted he talked Kanaka inces-
santly and glibly; and Kanaka only. He was still
very ill, and he talked to me in that tongue; but
I did not understand it, of course. The doctor
books tell us that cases like this are not uncommon.
Then the doctors ought to study the cases and find
out how to multiply them. Many languages and
things get mislaid in a person's head, and stay mis-
laid for lack of this remedy.

Many memories of my former visit to the islands
came up in my mind while we lay at anchor in front
of Honolulu that night. And pictures — pictures —

34

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

pictures — an enchanting procession of them ! I was
impatient for the morning to come.

When it came it brought disappointment, of
course. Cholera had broken out in the town, and
we were not allowed to have any communication
with the shore. Thus suddenly did my dream of
twenty-nine years go to ruin. Messages came from
friends, but the friends themselves I was not to have
any sight of. My lecture-hall was ready, but I was
not to see that, either.

Several of our passengers belonged in Honolulu,
and these were sent ashore; but nobody could go
ashore and return. There were people on shore
who were booked to go with us to Australia, but we
could not receive them; to do it would cost us a
quarantine-term in Sydney. They could have es-
caped the day before, by ship to San Francisco;
but the bars had been put up, now, and they might
have to wait weeks before any ship could venture to
give them a passage any whither. And there were
hardships for others. An elderly lady and her son,
recreation-seekers from Massachusetts, had wandered
westward, further and further from home, always
intending to take the return track, but always con-
cluding to go still a little further; and now here they
were at anchor before Honolulu: — positively their
last westward-bound indulgence — they had made up
their minds to that — but where is the use of making
up your mind in this world? It is usually a waste
of time to do it. These two would have to stay
with us as far as Australia. Then they could go on
around the world, or go back the way they had

35

MARK TWAIN

come; the distance and the accommodations and
outlay of time would be just the same, whichever of
the two routes they might elect to take. Think
of it: a projected excursion of five hundred miles
gradually enlarged, without any elaborate degree of
intention, to a possible twenty-four thousand. How-
ever, they were used to extensions by this time, and
did not mind this new one much.

And we had with us a lawyer from Victoria, who
had been sent out by the Government on an inter-
national matter, and he had brought his wife with
him and left the children at home with the servants
— and now what was to be done ? Go ashore amongst
the cholera and take the risks? Most certainly not.
They decided to go on, to the Fiji Islands, wait
there a fortnight for the next ship, and then sail
for home. They couldn't foresee that they wouldn't
see a homeward-bound ship again for six weeks, and
that no word could come to them from the children,
and no word go from them to the children in all
that time. It is easy to make plans in this world;
even a cat can do it; and when one is out in those
remote oceans it is noticeable that a cat's plans and
a man's are worth about the same. There is much
the same shrinkage in both, in the matter of values.

There was nothing for us to do but sit about the
decks in the shade of the awnings and look at the
distant shore. We lay in luminous blue water;
shoreward the water was green — green and brilliant ;
at the shore itself it broke in a long white ruffle, and
with no crash, no sound that we could hear. The
town was buried under a mat of foliage that looked

36

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

like a cushion of moss. The silky mountains were
clothed in soft, rich splendors of melting color, and
some of the cliffs were veiled in slanting mists. I
recognized it all. It was just as I had seen it long
before, with nothing of its beauty lost, nothing of
its charm wanting.

A change had come, but that was political, and
not visible from the ship. The monarchy of my
day was gone, and a republic was sitting in its seat.
It was not a material change. The old imitation
pomps, the fuss and feathers, have departed, and
the royal trade-mark — that is about all that one
could miss, I suppose. That imitation monarchy
was grotesque enough, in my time; if it had held
on another thirty years it would have been a mon-
archy without subjects of the king's race.

We had a sunset of a very fine sort. The vast
plain of the sea was marked off in bands of sharply
contrasted colors ; great stretches of dark blue, others
of purple, others of polished bronze; the billowy
mountains showed all sorts of dainty browns and
greens, blues and purples and blacks, and the
rounded velvety backs of certain of them made one
want to stroke them, as one would the sleek back
of a cat. The long, sloping promontory projecting
into the sea at the west turned dim and leaden and
spectral, then became suffused with pink — dissolved
itself into a pink dream, so to speak, it seemed so airy
and unreal. Presently the cloud-rack was flooded
with fiery splendors, and these were copied on the
surface of the sea, and it made one drunk with
delight to look upon it.

37

MARK TWAIN

From talks with certain of our passengers whose
home was Honolulu, and from a sketch by Mrs.
Mary H. Krout, I was able to perceive what the
Honolulu of to-day is, as compared with the Hono-
lulu of my time. In my time it was a beautiful little
town, made up of snow-white wooden cottages deli-
ciously smothered in tropical vines and flowers and
trees and shrubs; and its coral roads and streets
were hard and smooth, and as white as the houses.
The outside aspects of the place suggested the pres-
ence of a modest and comfortable prosperity — a
general prosperity — perhaps one might strengthen
the term and say universal. There were no fine
houses, no fine furniture. There were no decora-
tions. Tallow candles furnished the light for the
bedrooms, a whale-oil lamp furnished it for the par-
lor. Native matting served as carpeting. In the
parlor one would find two or three lithographs on
the walls — portraits as a rule: Kamehameha IV.,
Louis Kossuth, Jenny Lind; and maybe an en-
graving or two: "Rebecca at the Well," "Moses
Smiting the Rock," "Joseph's Servants Finding the
Cup in Benjamin's Sack." There would be a center-
table with books of a tranquil sort on it: The
Whole Duty of Man, Baxter's Saints* Rest, Fox's
Martyrs, Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy, bound
copies of The Missionary Herald and of Father
Damien's Seaman's Friend. A melodeon; a music-
stand, with "Willie, We Have Missed You," "Star
of the Evening," "Roll on, Silver Moon," "Are We
Most There?" "I Would Not Live Alway," and
other songs of love and sentiment, together with

38

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

an assortment of hymns. A what-not with semi-
globular glass paper-weights, inclosing miniature
pictures of ships, New England rural snow-storms,
and the like; sea-shells with Bible texts carved on
them in cameo style; native curios; whale's tooth
with full-rigged ship carved on it. There was
nothing reminiscent of foreign parts, for nobody had
been abroad. Trips were made to San Francisco,
but that could not be called going abroad. Com-
prehensively speaking, nobody traveled.

But Honolulu has grown wealthy since then, and
of course wealth has introduced changes; some of
the old simplicities have disappeared. Here is a
modern house, as pictured by Mrs. Krout:

Almost every house is surrounded by extensive lawns and
gardens inclosed by walls of volcanic stone or by thick hedges
of the brilliant hibiscus.

The houses are most tastefully and comfortably furnished;
the floors are of hard wood covered either with rugs or with fine
Indian matting, while there is a preference, as in most warm
countries, for rattan or bamboo furniture; there are the usual
accessories of bric-a-brac, pictures, books, and curios from all
parts of the world, for these island-dwellers are indefatigable
travelers.

Nearly every house has what is called a lanai. It is a large
apartment, roofed, floored, open on three sides, with a door or a
draped archway opening into the drawing-room. Frequently
the roof is formed by the thick interlacing boughs of the hou tree,
impervious to the sun and even to the rain, except in violent
storms. Vines are trained about the sides — the stephanotis or
some one of the countless fragrant and blossoming trailers which
abound in the islands. There are also curtains of matting that
may be drawn to exclude the sun or rain. The floor is bare for
coolness, or partially covered with rugs, and the lanai is prettily
furnished with comfortable chairs, sofas, and tables loaded with
flowers, or wonderful ferns in pots.

39

MARK TWAIN

The lanai is the favorite reception-room, and here at any
social function the musical program is given, and cakes and ices
are served; here morning callers are received, or gay riding
parties, the ladies in pretty divided skirts, worn for convenience
in riding astride — the universal mode adopted by Europeans
and Americans, as well as by the natives.

The comfort and luxury of such an apartment, especially at
a seashore villa, can hardly be imagined. The soft breezes swept
across it, heavy with the fragrance of jasmine and gardenia, and
through the swaying boughs of palm and mimosa there are
glimpses of rugged mountains, their summits veiled in clouds,
of purple sea with white surf beating eternally against the reefs
— whiter still in the yellow sunlight or the magical moonlight
of the tropics.

There: rugs, ices, pictures, lanais, worldly books,
sinful bric-a-brac fetched from everywhere. And
the ladies riding astride. These are changes, indeed.
In my time the native women rode astride, but the
white ones lacked the courage to adopt their wise
custom. In my time ice was seldom seen in Hon-
olulu. It sometimes came in sailing-vessels from
New England as ballast; and then, if there hap-
pened to be a man-of-war in port and balls and sup-
pers raging by consequence, the ballast was worth
six hundred dollars a ton, as is evidenced by repu-
table tradition. But the ice-machine has traveled all
over the world, now, and brought ice within every-
body's reach. In Lapland and Spitzbergen no one
uses native ice in our day, except the bears and the
walruses.

The bicycle is not mentioned. It was not neces-
sary. We know that it is there, without inquiring.
It is everywhere. But for it, people could never
have had summer homes on the summit of Mont

40

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

lane; before its day, property up there had but a
nominal value. The ladies of the Hawaiian capital
learned too late the right way to occupy a horse — ■
too late to get much benefit from it. The riding-
horse is retiring from business everywhere in the
world. In Honolulu a few years from now he will
be only a tradition.

We all know about Father Damien, the French
priest who voluntarily forsook the world and went to
the leper island of Molokai to labor among its popu-
lation of sorrowful exiles who wait there, in slow-
consuming misery, for death to come and release
them from their troubles, and we know that the
thing which he knew beforehand would happen, did
happen: that he became a leper himself, and died
of that horrible disease. There was still another case
of self-sacrifice, it appears. I asked after "Billy"
Ragsdale, interpreter to the Parliament in my time —
a half -white. He was a brilliant young fellow, and
very popular. As an interpreter he would have been
hard to match anywhere. He used to stand up in
the Parliament and turn the English speeches into
Hawaiian and the Hawaiian speeches into English
with a readiness and a volubility that were astonish-
ing. I asked after him, and was told that his prosper-
ous career was cut short in a sudden and unexpected
way, just as he was about to marry a beautiful half-
caste girl. He discovered, by some nearly invisible
sign about his skin, that the poison of leprosy was in
him. The secret was his own, and might be kept
concealed for years ; but he would not be treacher-
ous to the girl that loved him; he would not marry

41

MARK TWAIN

her to a doom like his. And so he put his affairs in
order, and went around to all his friends and bade
them good-by, and sailed in the leper ship to MolokaL
There he died the loathsome and lingering death
that all lepers die.

In this place let me insert a paragraph or two
from The Paradise of the Pacific (Rev. H. H. Gowen) :

Poor lepers! It is easy for those who have no relatives or
friends among them to enforce the decree of segregation to the
letter, but who can write of the terrible, the heartbreaking
scenes which that enforcement has brought about?

A man upon Hawaii was suddenly taken away after a sum-
mary arrest, leaving behind him a helpless wife about to give
birth to a babe. The devoted wife with great pain and risk
came the whole journey to Honolulu, and pleaded until the au-
thorities were unable to resist her entreaty that she might go
and live like a leper with her leper husband.

A woman in the prime of life and activity is condemned as an
incipient leper, suddenly removed from her home, and her hus-
band returns to find his two helpless babes moaning for their
lost mother.

Imagine it! The case of the babies is hard, but its bitterness
is a trifle — less than a trifle — less than nothing — compared to
what the mother must suffer; and suffer minute by minute, hour
by hour, day by day, month by month, year by year, without
respite, relief, or any abatement of her pain till she dies.

One woman, Luka Kaaukau, has been living with her leper
husband in the settlement for twelve years. The man has
scarcely a joint left, his limbs are only distorted ulcerated stumps,
for four years his wife has put every particle of food into his
mouth. He wanted his wife to abandon his wretched carcass
long ago, as she herself was sound and well, but Luka said that
she was content to remain and wait on the man she loved till
the spirit should be freed from its burden.

I myself have known hard cases enough: of a girl, apparently
in full health, decorating the church with me at Easter, who
before Christmas is taken away as a confirmed leper; of a
mother hiding her child in the mountains for years so that not

4-2

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

even her dearest friends knew that she had a child alive, that he
might not be taken away; of a respectable white man taken
away from his wife and family, and compelled to become a
dweller in the Leper Settlement, where he is counted dead, even
by the insurance companies.

And one great pity of it all is, that these poor
sufferers are innocent. The leprosy does not come
of sins which they committed, but of sins committed
by their ancestors, who escaped the curse of leprosy !

Mr. Gowen has made record of a certain very
striking circumstance. Would you expect to find in
that awful Leper Settlement a custom worthy to be
transplanted to your own country? They have one
such, and it is inexpressibly touching and beautiful.
When death sets open the prison door of life there,
the band salutes the freed soul with a burst of glad
music!

43

CHAPTER IV

A dozen direct censures are easier to bear than one morganatic compliment,

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

SAILED from Honolulu. From diary :
Sept. 2. Flocks of flying-fish — slim, shapely
graceful, and intensely white. With the sun on
them they look like a flight of silver fruit-knives.
They are able to fly a hundred yards.

Sept. 3. In 90 50' north latitude, at breakfast.
Approaching the equator on a long slant. Those
of us who have never seen the equator are a good
deal excited. I think I would rather see it than any
other thing in the world. We entered the "dol-
drums" last night — variable winds, bursts of rain,
intervals of calm, with chopping seas and a wobbly
and drunken motion to the ship — a condition of
things findable in other regions sometimes, but pres-
ent in the doldrums always. The globe-girdling belt
called the doldrums is twenty degrees wide, and the
thread called the equator lies along the middle of it.

Sept. 4. Total eclipse of the moon last night. At
seven-thirty it began to go off. At total — or about
that — it was like a rich rosy cloud with a tumbled
surface framed in the circle and projecting from it —
a bulge of strawberry-ice, so to speak. At half-
eclipse the moon was like a gilded acorn in its cup.

Sept. 5. Closing in on the equator this noon. A

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

sailor explained to a young girl that the ship's speed
is poor because we are climbing up the bulge toward
the center of the globe; but that when we should
once get over, at the equator, and start downhill,
we should fly. When she asked him the other day
what the foreyard was, he said it was the front
yard, the open area in the front end of the ship.
That man has a good deal of learning stored up,
and the girl is likely to get it all.

Afternoon. Crossed the equator. In the distance
it looked like a blue ribbon stretched across the
ocean. Several passengers kodak'd it. We had no
fool ceremonies, no fantastics, no horse-play. All
that sort of thing has gone out. In old times a
sailor, dressed as Neptune, used to come in over the
bows, with his suite, and lather up and shave every-
body who was crossing the equator for the first
time, and then cleanse these unfortunates by swing-
ing them from the yard-arm and ducking them three
times in the sea. This was considered funny. No-
body knows why. No, that is not true. We do
know why. Such a thing could never be funny on
land; no part of the old-time grotesque perform-
ances gotten up on shipboard to celebrate the pas-
sage of the line could ever be funny on shore —
they would seem dreary and witless to shore people.
But the shore people would change their minds
about it at sea, on a long voyage. On such a voy-
age, with its eternal monotonies, people's intellects
deteriorate; the owners of the intellects soon reach
a point where they almost seem to prefer childish
things to things of a maturer degree. One is often

45

MARK TWAIN

surprised at the juvenilities which grown people
indulge in at sea, and the interest they take in them,
and the consuming enjoyment they get out of them.
This is on long voyages only. The mind gradually
becomes inert, dull, blunted; it loses its accustomed
interest in intellectual things; nothing but horse-
play can rouse it, nothing but wild and foolish
grotesqueries can entertain it. On short voyages it
makes no such exposure of itself; it hasn't time to
slump down to this sorrowful level.

The short-voyage passenger gets his chief physical
exercise out of "horse-billiards" — shovel-board. It
is a good game. We play it in this ship. A quarter-
master chalks off a diagram like this — on the deck.
(See next page.)

The player uses a cue that is like a broom-handle
with a quarter-moon of wood fastened to the end of
it. With this he shoves wooden disks the size of a
saucer — he gives the disk a vigorous shove and sends
it fifteen or twenty feet along the deck and lands
it in one of the squares if he can. If it stays there
till the inning is played out, it will count as many
points in the game as the figure in the square it has
stopped in represents. The adversary plays to
knock that disk out and leave his own in its place —
particularly if it rests upon the 9 or 10 or some
other of the high numbers; but if it rests in the
"10-off" he backs it up — lands his disk behind it
a foot or two, to make it difficult for its owner to
knock it out of that damaging place and improve
his record. When the inning is played out it may
be found that each adversary has placed his four

46

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

HORSE-BILLIARDS

10

disks where they count; it may be found that some
of them are touching chalk-lines and not counting;
and very often it will be found that there has been a
general wreckage, and that not a disk has been left
within the dia-
gram. Anyway,
the result is re-
corded, whatever
it is, and the
game goes on.
The game is one
hundred points,
and it takes from
twenty minutes
to forty to play
it, according to
luck and the con-
dition of the sea.
It is an exciting
game, and the
crowd of spec-
tators furnish
abundance of ap-
plause for fortu-
nate shots and
plenty of laugh-
ter for the oth-
er kind. It is a

game of skill, but at the same time the uneasy mo-
tion of the ship is constantly interfering with skill;
this makes it a chancy game, and the element of
luck comes largely in.

47

s

I

6

3

5

7

i

4

9

2

10 off

DIAGRAM

MARK TWAIN

We had a couple of grand tournaments, to deter-
mine who should be "Champion of the Pacific":
they included among the participants nearly all the
passengers, of both sexes, and the officers of the ship,
and they afforded many days of stupendous interest
and excitement, and murderous exercise — for horse-
billiards is a physically violent game.

The figures in the following record of some of
the closing games in the first tournament will show,
better than any description, how very chancy the
game is. The losers here represented had all been
winners in the previous games of the series, some of
them by fine majorities:

Chase,

102

Mrs. D.,

57

Mortimer,

105

The Surgeon,

92

Miss C,

105

Mrs. T.,

9

Clemens,

101

Taylor,

92

Taylor,

IO9

Davies,

95

Miss C,

108

Mortimer,

55

Thomas,

I02

Roper,

76

Clemens,

in

Miss C,

89

Coomber,

IO6

Chase,

98

And so on; until but three couples of winners
were left. Then I beat my man, young Smith beat
his man, and Thomas beat his. This reduced the
combatants to three. Smith and I took the deck,
and I led off. At the close of the first inning I was
10 worse than nothing and Smith had scored 7.
The luck continued against me. When I was 57,
Smith was 97 — within 3 of out. The luck changed
then. He picked up a 10-off or so, and couldn't
recover. I beat him.

The next game would end tournament No. 1.

Mr. Thomas and I were the contestants. He won
the lead and went to the bat — so to speak. And
there he stood, with the crotch of his cue resting

48

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

against his disk while the ship rose slowly up, sank
slowly down, rose again, sank again. She never
seemed to rise to suit him exactly. She started up
once more; and when she was nearly ready for the
turn, he let drive and landed his disk just within
the left-hand end of the 10. [Applause.] The
umpire proclaimed "a good 10," and the game-
keeper set it down. I played: my disk grazed the
edge of Mr. Thomas's disk, and went out of the
diagram. [Applause.]

Mr. Thomas played again — and landed his second
disk alongside of the first, and almost touching its
right-hand side. "Good 10." [Great applause.]

I played, and missed both of them. [No applause.]

Mr. Thomas delivered his third shot and landed
his disk just at the right of the other two. "Good
10." [Immense applause.]

There they lay, side by side, the three in a row.
It did not seem possible that anybody could miss
them. Still I did it. [Immense silence.]

Mr. Thomas played his last disk. It seems in-
credible, but he actually landed that disk alongside
of the others, and just to the right of them — a
straight solid row of four disks. [Tumultuous and
long-continued applause.]

Then I played my last disk. Again it did not
seem possible that anybody could miss that row — a
row which would have been fourteen inches long if the
disks had been clamped together; whereas, with the
spaces separating them they made a longer row than
that. But I did it. It may be that I was getting
nervous.

49

MARK TWAIN

I think it unlikely that that inning has ever had
its parallel in the history of horse-billiards. To
place the four disks side by side in the 10 was an
extraordinary feat ; indeed, it was a kind of miracle.
To miss them was another miracle. It will take a
century to produce another man who can place the
four disks in the 10; and longer than that to find a
man who can't knock them out. I was ashamed of
my performance at the time, but now that I reflect
upon it I see that it was rather fine and difficult.

Mr. Thomas kept his luck, and won the game,
and later the championship.

In a minor tournament I won the prize, which
was a Waterbury watch. I put it in my trunk. In
Pretoria, South Africa, nine months afterward, my
proper watch broke down and I took the Waterbury
out, wound it, set it by the great clock on the
Parliament House (8.05), then went back to my
room and went to bed, tired from a long railway
journey. The parliamentary clock had a peculiarity
which I was not aware of at the time — a peculiarity
which exists in no other clock, and would not exist
in that one if it had been made by a sane person;
on the half -hour it strikes the succeeding hour, then
strikes the hour again at the proper time. I lay
reading and smoking awhile; then, when I could
hold my eyes open no longer and was about to put
out the light, the great clock began to boom, and I
counted — ten. I reached for the Waterbury to see
how it was getting along. It was marking nine-
thirty. It seemed rather poor speed for a three-dollar
watch, but I supposed that the climate was affecting

50

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

it. I shoved it half an hour ahead, and took to m.3)
book and waited to see what would happen. At ten
the great clock struck ten again. I looked — the
Waterbury was marking half past ten. This was
too much speed for the money, and it troubled me.
I pushed the hands back a half -hour, and waited
once more; I had to, for I was vexed and restless
now, and my sleepiness was gone. By and by the
great clock struck eleven. The Waterbury was
marking ten-thirty. I pushed it ahead half an hour,
with some show of temper. By and by the great
clock struck eleven again. The Waterbury showed
up eleven-thirty, now, and I beat her brains out
against the bedstead. I was sorry next day, when
I found out.

To return to the ship.

The average human being is a perverse creature;
and when he isn't that, he is a practical joker. The
result to the other person concerned is about the
same: that is, he is made to suffer. The washing
down of the decks begins at a very early hour in
all ships; in but few ships are any measures taken
to protect the passengers, either by waking or warn-
ing them, or by sending a steward to close their
ports. And so the deck-washers have their oppor-
tunity, and they use it. They send a bucket of
water slashing along the side of the ship and into
the ports, drenching the passenger's clothes, and
often the passenger himself. This good old custom
prevailed in this ship, and under unusually favorable
circumstances, for in the blazing tropical regions a
removable zinc thing like a sugar-shovel projects

Si

MARK TWAIN

from the port to catch the wind and bring it in;
this thing catches the wash-water and brings it in,
too — and in flooding abundance. Mrs. I., an invalid,
had to sleep on the locker-sofa under her port, and
every time she overslept and thus failed to take
care of herself, the deck -washers drowned her
out.

And the painters, what a good time they had!
This ship would be going into dock for a month in
Sydney for repairs; but no matter, painting was
going on all the time somewhere or other. The
ladies' dresses were constantly getting ruined, never-
theless protests and supplications went for nothing.
Sometimes a lady, taking an afternoon nap on deck
near a ventilator or some other thing that didn't
need painting, would wake up by and by and
find that the humorous painter had been noise-
lessly daubing that thing and had splattered her
white gown all over with little greasy yellow
spots.

The blame for this untimely painting did not He
with the ship's officers, but with custom. As far
back as Noah's time it became law that ships must
be constantly painted and fussed at when at sea;
custom grew out of the law, and at sea custom
knows no death ; this custom will continue until the
sea goes dry.

Sept. 8 — Sunday. We are moving so nearly south
that we cross only about two meridians of longitude
a day. This morning we were in longitude 178
west from Greenwich, and 57 degrees west from San
Francisco. To-morrow we shall be close to the

52

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

center of the globe — the 180th degree of west longir
tude and 180th degree of east longitude.

And then we must drop out a day — lose a day-
out of our lives, a day never to be found again. We
shall all die one day earlier than from the beginning
of time we were foreordained to die. We shall be
a day behindhand all through eternity. Yfe shall
always be saying to the other angels, "Fine day to-
day," and they will be always retorting, "But it
isn't to-day, it's to-morrow." We shall be in a
state of confusion all the time and shall never know
what true happiness is.

Next Day. Sure enough, it has happened. Yes-
terday it was September 8th, Sunday; to-day, per
the bulletin-board at the head of the companion-
way, it is September ioth, Tuesday. There is some-
thing uncanny about it. And uncomfortable. In
fact, nearly unthinkable, and wholly unrealizable,
when one comes to consider it. While we were
crossing the 180th meridian it was Sunday in the
stern of the ship where my family were, and Tuesday
in the bow where I was. They were there eating
the half of a fresh apple on the 8th, and I was at
the same time eating the other half of it on the
ioth — and I could notice how stale it was, already.
The family were the same age that they were when
I had left them five minutes before, but I was a day
older now than I was then. The day they were
living in stretched behind them half-way round the
globe, across the Pacific Ocean and America and
Europe; the day I was living in stretched in front
of me around the other half to meet it. They were

S3

MARK TWAIN

stupendous days for bulk and stretch; apparently
much larger days than we had ever been in before.
All previous days had been but shrunk-up little
things by comparison. The difference in tempera-
ture between the two days was very marked, their
day being hotter than mine because it was closer to
the equator.

Along about the moment that we were crossing
the Great Meridian a child was born in the steerage,
and now there is no way to tell which day it was
born on. The nurse thinks it was Sunday, the
surgeon thinks it was Tuesday. The child will
never know its own birthday. It will always be
choosing first one and then the other, and will never
be able to make up its mind permanently. This
will breed vacillation and uncertainty in its opinions
about religion, and politics, and business, and sweet-
hearts, and everything, and will undermine its prin-
ciples, and rot them away, and make the poor thing
characterless, and its success in life impossible.
Every one in the ship says so. And this is not all —
in fact, not the worst. For there is an enormously
rich brewer in the ship who said as much as ten
days ago that if the child was born on his birthday
he would give it ten thousand dollars to start its
little life with. His birthday was Monday, the 9th
of September.

If the ships all moved in the one direction —
westward, I mean — the world would suffer a pro-
digious loss in the matter of valuable time, through
the dumping overboard on the Great Meridian of
such multitudes of days by ships' crews and passen-

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

gers. But, fortunately, the ships do not all sail west,
half of them sail east. So there is no real loss.
These latter pick up all the discarded days and add
them to the world's stock again; and about as good
as new, too; for of course the salt-water preserve?
them.

55

CHAPTER V

Noise proves nothing. Often a hen who has merely laid an egg cackles as If
she had laid an asteroid. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WEDNESDAY, Sept. n. In this world we
often make mistakes of judgment. We do
not, as a rule, get out of them sound and whole, but
sometimes we do. At dinner yesterday evening —
present, a mixture of Scotch, English, American,
Canadian, and Australasian folk — a discussion broke
out about the pronunciation of certain Scottish words.
This was private ground, and the non-Scotch nation-
alities, with one exception, discreetly kept still.
But I am not discreet, and I took a hand. I didn't
know anything about the subject, but I took a hand
just to have something to do. At that moment
the word in dispute was the word three. One
Scotchman was claiming that the peasantry of Scot-
land pronounced it three, his adversaries claimed
that they didn't — that they pronounced it throw.
The solitary Scot was having a sultry time of it,
so I thought I would enrich him with my help.
In my position I was necessarily quite impartial,
and was equally as well and as ill equipped to fight
on the one side as on the other. So I spoke up and
said the peasantry pronounced the word three, not
thraw. It was an error of judgment. There was a

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

moment of astonished and ominous silence, then
weather ensued. The storm rose and spread in a
surprising way, and I was snowed under in a very
few minutes. It was a bad defeat for me — a kind
of Waterloo. It promised to remain so, and I
wished I had had better sense than to enter upon
such a forlorn enterprise. But just then I had a
saving thought — at least a thought that offered a
chance. While the storm was still raging, I made
up a Scotch couplet, and then spoke up and said:

"Very well, don't say any more. I confess
defeat. I thought I knew, but I see my mistake-
I was deceived by one of your Scotch poets."

"A Scotch -poet I Oh, come! Name him."

"Robert Burns."

It is wonderful the power of that name. These
men looked doubtful — but paralyzed, all the same.
They were quite silent for a moment; then one of
them said — with the reverence in his voice which is
always present in a Scotchman's tone when he utters
the name :

"Does Robbie Burns say — what does he say?"

"This is what he says:

"There were nae bairns but only three —

Ane at the breast, twa at the knee."

It ended the discussion. There was no man there
profane enough, disloyal enough, to say any word
against a thing which Robert Burns had settled. I
shall always honor that great name for the salvation
it brought me in this time of my sore need.

It is my belief that nearly any invented quotation,

57

MARK TWAIN

played with confidence, stands a good chance to
deceive. There are people who think that honesty
is always the best policy. This is a superstition;
there are times when the appearance of it is worth
six of it.

We are moving steadily southward — getting fur-
ther and further down under the projecting paunch
of the globe. Yesterday evening we saw the Big
Dipper and the north star sink below the horizon
and disappear from our world. No, not "we," but
they. They saw it — somebody saw it — and told me
about it. But it is no matter, I was not caring
for those things. I am tired of them, anyway. I
think they are well enough, but one doesn't want
them always hanging around. My interest was all
in the Southern Cross. I had never seen that. I
had heard about it all my life, and it was but natural
that I should be burning to see it. No other con-
stellation makes so much talk. I had nothing against
the Big Dipper — and naturally couldn't have any-
thing against it, since it is a citizen of our own sky,
and the property of the United States — but I did
want it to move out of the way and give this for-
eigner a chance. Judging by the size of the talk
which the Southern Cross had made, I supposed it
would need a sky all to itself.

But that was a mistake. We saw the Cross to-
night, and it is not large. Not large, and not strik-
ingly bright. But it was low down toward the
horizon, and it may improve when it gets up higher
in the sky. It is ingeniously named, for it looks
just as a cross would look if it looked like something

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

else. But that description does not describe; it is
too vague, too general, too indefinite. It does after
a fashion suggest a cross — a cross that is out of
repair — or out of drawing; not correctly shaped.
It is long, with a short cross-bar, and the cross-bar
is canted out of the straight line.

It consists of four large stars and one little one.
The little one is out of line
and further damages the
shape. It should have been
placed at the intersection of
the stem and the cross-bar. out of repair

If you do not draw an im-
aginary line from star to star it does not suggest
a cross — nor anything in particular.

One must ignore the little star, and leave it out of
the combination — it confuses everything. If you
leave it out, then you can make out of the four stars
a sort of cross — out of true; or a sort of kite —
out of true; or a sort of coffin — out of true.

Constellations have always been troublesome
things to name. If you give one of them a fanciful
name, it will always refuse to live up to it; it will
always persist in not resembling the thing it has
been named for. Ultimately, to satisfy the public,
the fanciful name has to be discarded for a common-
sense one, a manifestly descriptive one. The Great
Bear remained the Great Bear — and unrecognizable
as such — for thousands of years; and people com-
plained about it all the time, and quite properly;
but as soon as it became the property of the United
States, Congress changed it to the Big Dipper, and

Vol. 15 59 c — M T>

MARK TWAIN

now everybody is satisfied, and there is no more
talk about riots. I would not change the Southern
Cross to the Southern Coffin, I would change it to
the Southern Kite; for up there in the general
emptiness is the proper home of a kite, but not for
coffins and crosses and dippers. In a little while,
now — I cannot tell exactly how long it will be —
the globe will belong to the English-speaking race;
and of course the skies also. Then the constellations
will be reorganized, and polished up, and renamed
— the most of them "Victoria," I reckon, but this
one will sail thereafter as the Southern Kite, or go
out of business. Several towns and things, here
and there, have been named for her Majesty already.

In these past few days we are plowing through a
mighty Milky Way of islands. They are so thick on
the map that one would hardly expect to find room
between them for a canoe; yet we seldom glimpse
one. Once we saw the dim bulk of a couple of them,
far away, spectral and dreamy things; members of
the Home — Alofa and Fortuna. On the larger one
are two rival native kings — and they have a time
together. They are Catholics; so are their people.
The missionaries there are French priests.

From the multitudinous islands in these regions
the "recruits" for the Queensland plantations were
formerly drawn; are still drawn from them, I be-
ueve. Vessels fitted up like old-time slavers came
here and carried off the natives to serve as laborers
in the great Australian province. In the beginning
it was plain, simple man-stealing, as per testimony
of the missionaries. This has been denied, but not

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

disproven. Afterward it was forbidden by law to
"recruit" a native without his consent, and govern-
mental agents were sent in all recruiting vessels to
see that the law was obeyed — which they did, ac-
cording to the recruiting people; and which they
sometimes didn't, according to the missionaries. A
man could be lawfully recruited for a three years'
term of service; he could volunteer for another
term if he so chose; when his time was up he could
return to his island. And would also have the means
to do it; for the government required the employer
to put money in its hands for this purpose before
the recruit was delivered to him.

Captain Wawn was a recruiting shipmaster during
many years. From his pleasant book one gets the
idea that the recruiting business was quite popular
with the islanders, as a rule. And yet that did not
make the business wholly dull and uninteresting;
for one finds rather frequent little breaks in the
monotony of it — like this, for instance :

The afternoon of our arrival at Leper Island the schooner was
lying almost becalmed under the lee of the lofty central portion
of the island, about three-quarters of a mile from the shore.
The boats were in sight at some distance. The recruiter-boat
had run into a small nook on the rocky coast, under a high bank,
above which stood a solitary hut backed by dense forest. The
government agent and mate in the second boat lay about four
hundred yards to the westward.

Suddenly we heard the sound of firing, followed by yells from
the natives on shore, and then we saw the recruiter-boat push
out with a seemingly diminished crew. The mate's boat pulled
quickly up, took her in tow, and presently brought her along-
side, all her own crew being more or less hurt. It seems the
natives had called them into the place on pretense of friendship.

61

MARK TWAIN

A crowd gathered about the stern of the boat, and several fel-
lows even got into her. All of a sudden our men were attacked
with clubs and tomahawks. The recruiter escaped the first
blows aimed at him, making play with his fists until he had an
opportunity to draw his revolver. "Tom Sayers," a Mare man,
received a tomahawk blow on the head which laid the scalp
open but did not penetrate his skull, fortunately. "Bobby
Towns," another Mare boatman, had both his thumbs cut in
warding off blows, one of them being so nearly severed from the
hand that the doctors had to finish the operation. Lihu, a Lifu
boy, the recruiter's special attendant, was cut and pricked in
various places, but nowhere seriously. Jack, an unlucky Tanna
recruit, who had been engaged to act as boatman, received an
arrow through his forearm, the head of which — a piece of bone
seven or eight inches long — was still in the limb, protruding from
both sides, when the boats returned. The recruiter himself
would have got off scot-free had not an arrow pinned one of
his fingers to the loom of the steering-oar just as they were
getting off. The fight had been short but sharp. The enemy
lost two men, both shot dead.

The truth is, Captain Wawn furnishes such a
crowd of instances of fatal encounters between
natives and French and English recruiting crews (for
the French are in the business for the plantations of
New Caledonia), that one is almost persuaded that
recruiting is not thoroughly popular among the
islanders; else why this bristling string of attacks
and blood-curdling slaughter? The captain lays it
all to "Exeter Hall influence." But for the med-
dling philanthropists, the native fathers and mothers
would be fond of seeing their children carted into
exile and now and then the grave, instead of weep-
ing about it and trying to kill the kind recruiters.

62

CHAPTER VI

Re was as shy as a newspaper is when referring to its own merits.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

CAPTAIN WAWN is crystal-clear on one point.
He does not approve of missionaries. They
obstruct his business. They make "Recruiting," as
he calls it ("Slave-Catching," as they call it in their
frank way) a trouble when it ought to be just a
picnic and a pleasure excursion. The missionaries
have their opinion about the manner in which the
Labor Traffic is conducted, and about the recruiter's
evasions of the law of the Traffic, and about the
Traffic itself: and it is distinctly uncomplimentary
to the Traffic and to everything connected with it,
including the law for its regulation. Captain Wawn's
book is of very recent date ; I have by me a pamphlet
of still later date — hot from the press, in fact — by
Rev. Wm. Gray, a missionary; and the book and
the pamphlet taken together make exceedingly
interesting reading, to my mind.

Interesting, and easy to understand — except in
one detail, which I will mention presently. It is
easy to understand why the Queensland sugar-planter
should want the Kanaka recruit : he is cheap. Very
cheap, in fact. These are the figures paid by the
planter: £20 to the recruiter for getting the Kanaka

63

MARK TWAIN

— or "catching" him, as the missionary phrase goes;
£3 to the Queensland government for "superintend-
ing" the importation; £5 deposited with the gov-
ernment for the Kanaka's passage home when his
three years are up, in case he shall live that long;
about £25 to the Kanaka himself for three years'
wages and clothing; total payment for the use of a
man three years, £53; or, including diet, £60.
Altogether, a hundred dollars a year. One can un-
derstand why the recruiter is fond of the business;
the recruit costs him a few cheap presents (given to
the recruit's relatives, not to the recruit himself),
and the recruit is worth £20 to the recruiter when
delivered in Queensland. All this is clear enough;
but the thing that is not clear is, what there is about
it all to persuade the recruit. He is young and
brisk; life at home in his beautiful island is one lazy,
long holiday to him ; or if he wants to work he can
turn out a couple of bags of copra per week and sell
it for four or five shillings a bag. In Queensland he
must get up at dawn and work from eight to twelve
hours a day in the cane-fields — in a much hotter
climate than he is used to — and get less than four
shillings a week for it.

I cannot understand his willingness to go to
Queensland. It is a deep puzzle to me. Here is
the explanation, from the planter's point of view;
at least I gather from the missionary's pamphlet that
it is the planter's :

When he comes from his home he is a savage, pure and simple.
He feels no shame at his nakedness and want of adornment.
When he returns home he does so well dressed, sporting a Water-

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

bury watch, collars, cuffs, boots, and jewelry. He takes with
him one or more boxes * well filled with clothing, a musical in-
strument or two, and perfumery and other articles of luxury
he has learned to appreciate.

For just one moment we have a seeming flash of
comprehension of the Kanaka's reason for exiling
himself: he goes away to acquire civilization. Yes,
he was naked and not ashamed, now he is clothed
and knows how to be ashamed; he was unenlight-
ened, now he has a Waterbury watch ; he was unre-
fined, now he has jewelry, and something to make
him smell good; he was a nobody, a provincial, now
he has been to far countries and can show off.

It all looks plausible — for a moment. Then the
missionary takes hold of this explanation and pulls it
to pieces, and dances on it, and damages it beyond
recognition.

Admitting that the foregoing description is the average one,
the average sequel is this: The cuffs and collars, if used at all,
are carried off by youngsters, who fasten them round the leg,
just below the knee, as ornaments. The Waterbury, broken and
dirty, finds its way to the trader, who gives a trifle for it; or the
inside is taken out, the wheels strung on a thread and hung
around the neck. Knives, axes, calico, and handkerchiefs are
divided among friends, and there is hardly one of these apiece.
The boxes, the keys often lost on the road home, can be bought
for 2S. 6d. They are to be seen rotting outside in almost any
shore village on Tanna. (I speak of what I have seen.) A re-
turned Kanaka has been furiously angry with me because I
would not buy his trousers, which he declared were just my fit.
He sold them afterward to one of my Aniwan teachers for gd.
worth of tobacco — a pair of trousers that probably cost him 8s.
or i as. in Queensland. A coat or shirt is handy for cold weather.
The white handkerchiefs, the "senet" (perfumery), the um-

l"Box" is English for trunk.
65

MARK TWAIN

brella, and perhaps the hat, are kept. The boots have to take
their chance, if they do not happen to fit the copra trader.
"Senet" on the hair, streaks of paint on the face, a dirty white
handkerchief round the neck, strips of turtle-shell in the ears, a
belt, a sheath and knife, and an umbrella constitute the rig of
the returned Kanaka at home the day after landing.

A hat, an umbrella, a belt, a neckerchief. Other-
wise stark naked. All in a day the hard-earned
"civilization" has melted away to this. And even
these perishable things must presently go. Indeed,
there is but a single detail of his civilization that can
be depended on to stay by him: according to the
missionary, he has learned to swear. This is art,
and art is long, as the poet says.

In all countries the laws throw light upon the past.
The Queensland law for the regulation of the Labor
Traffic is a confession. It is a confession that the
evils charged by the missionaries upon the traffic
had existed in the past, and that they still existed
when the law was made. The missionaries make a
further charge: that the law is evaded by the re-
cruiters, and that the Government Agent sometimes
helps them to do it. Regulation thirty-one reveals
two things : that sometimes a young fool of a recruit
gets his senses back, after being persuaded to sign
away his liberty for three years, and dearly wants to
get out of the engagement and stay at home with his
own people ; and that threats, intimidation, and force
are used to keep him on board the recruiting ship,
and to hold him to his contract. Regulation thirty-
one forbids these coercions. The law requires that he
shall be allowed to go free; and another clause of it
requires the recruiter to set him ashore — per boat,

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

because of the prevalence of sharks. Testimony
from Rev. Mr. Gray:

There are "wrinkles" for taking the penitent Kanaka. My
first experience of the Traffic was a case of this kind in 1884. A
vessel anchored just out of sight of our station, word was brought
to me that some boys were stolen, and the relatives wished me
to go and get them back. The facts were, as I found, that six
boys had recruited, had rusfied into the boat, the Government
Agent informed me. They had all "signed"; and, said the
Government Agent, "on board they shall remain." I was as-
sured that the six boys were of age and willing to go. Yet on
getting ready to leave the ship I found four of the lads ready to
come ashore in the boat! This I forbade. One of them jumped
into the water and persisted in coming ashore in my boat.
When appealed to, the Government Agent suggested that we
go and leave him to be picked up by the ship's boat, a quarter-
mile distant at the time!

The lav/ and the missionaries feel for the repentant
recruit — and properly, one may be permitted to
think, for he is only a youth and ignorant and per-
suadable to his hurt — but sympathy for him is not
kept in stock by the recruiter. Rev. Mr. Gray says :

A captain many years in the traffic explained to me how a
penitent, could be taken. "When a boy jumps overboard we
just take a boat and pull ahead of him, then he between him and
the shore. If he has not tired himself swimming, and passes
the boat, keep on heading him in this way. The dodge rarely
fails. The boy generally tires of swimming, gets into the boat
of his own accord, and goes quietly on board."

Yes, exhaustion is likely to make a boy quiet. If
the distressed boy had been the speaker's son, and
the captors savages, the speaker would have been
surprised to see how differently the thing looked
from the new point of view; however, it is not our

67

MARK TWAIN

custom to put ourselves in the other person's place0
Somehow there is something pathetic about that dis-
appointed young savage's resignation. I must ex-
plain, here, that in the traffic dialect, "boy" does
not always mean boy; it means a youth above six-
teen years of age. That is by Queensland law
the age of consent, though it is held that recruiters
allow themselves some latitude in guessing at ages.
Captain Wawn of the free spirit chafes under the
annoyance of "cast-iron regulations." They and
the missionaries have poisoned his life. He grieves
for the good old days, vanished to come no more.
See him weep; hear him cuss between the lines!

For a long time we were allowed to apprehend and detain all
deserters who had signed the agreement on board ship, but the
"cast-iron" regulations of the Act of 1884 put a stop to that,
allowing the Kanaka to sign the agreement for three years' ser-
vice, travel about in the ship in receipt of the regular rations,
cadge all he could, and leave when he thought fit, so long as he
did not extend his pleasure trip to Queensland.

Rev. Mr. Gray calls this same restrictive cast-iron
law a "farce." "There is as much cruelty and
injustice done to natives by acts that are legal as
by deeds unlawful. The regulations that exist are
unjust and inadequate — unjust and inadequate they
must ever be." He furnishes his reasons for his
position, but they are too long for reproduction here.

However, if the most a Kanaka advantages himself
by a three-years course in civilization in Queensland
is a necklace and an umbrella and a showy imperfec-
tion in the art of swearing, it must be that all the
profit of the traffic goes to the white man. This

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

could be twisted into a plausible argument that the
traffic ought to be squarely abolished.

However, there is reason for hope that that can be
left alone to achieve itself. It is claimed that the
traffic will depopulate its sources of supply within
the next twenty or thirty years. Queensland is a
very healthy place for white people — death-rate 12
in 1,000 of the population — but the Kanaka death-
rate is away above that. The vital statistics for 1 893
place it at 52; for 1894 (Mackay district), 68.
The first six months of the Kanaka's exile are pecu-
liarly perilous for him because of the rigors of the
new climate. The death-rate among the new men
has reached as high as 180 in the 1,000. In the
Kanaka'5? native home his death-rate is 12 in time of
peace, and 1 5 in time of war. Thus exile to Queens-
land— with the opportunity to acquire civilization,
an umbrella, and a pretty poor quality of profanity —
is twelve times as deadly for him as war. Common
Christian charity, common humanity, does seem to
require, not only that these people be returned to
their homes, but that war, pestilence, and famine be
introduced among them for their preservation.

Concerning these Pacific isles and their peoples an
eloquent prophet spoke long years ago — five and
fifty years ago. In fact, he spoke a little too early.
Prophecy is a good line of business, but it is full of
risks. This prophet was the Right Rev. M. Russell,
LL.D., D.C.L., of Edinburgh:

Is the tide of civilization to roll only to the foot of the Rocky
Mountains, and is the sun of knowledge to set at last in the waves
of the Pacific? No; the mighty day of four thousand years is

69

MARK TWAIN

drawing to its close; the sun of humanity has performed its
destined course; but long ere its setting rays are extinguished
in the west, its ascending beams have glittered on the isles of
the eastern seas. . . . And now we see the race of Japhet setting
forth to people the isles, and the seeds of another Europe and a
second England sown in the region of the sun. But mark the
words of the prophecy: "He shall dwell in the tents of Shem,
and Canaan shall be his servant." It is not said Canaan shall
be his slave. To the Anglo-Saxon race is given the scepter of the
globe, but there is not given either the lash of the slave-driver
or the rack of the executioner. The East will not be stained
with the same atrocities as the West; the frightful gangrene of
an ethralled race is not to mar the destinies of the family of
Japhet in the Oriental world; humanizing, not destroying, as
they advance; uniting with, not enslaving, the inhabitants with
whom they dwell; the British race may [etc., etc.].

And he closes his vision with an invocation from
Campbell :

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime.

Very well, Bright Improvement has arrived, you
see, with her civilization, and her Waterbury, and
her umbrella, and her third-quality profanity, and
her humanizing-not-destroying machinery, and her
hundred-and-eighty death-rate, and everything is
going along just as handsome!

But the prophet that speaks last has an advantage
over the pioneer in the business. Rev. Mr. Gray
says:

What I am concerned about is that we as a Christian nation
should wipe out these races to enrich ourselves.

And he closes his pamphlet with a grim Indictment
which is as eloquent in its flowerless straightforward

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

English as is the hand-painted rhapsody of the early
prophet :

My indictment of the Queensland Kanaka Labor Traffic is
this:

i. It generally demoralizes and always impoverishes the
Kanaka, deprives him of his citizenship, and depopulates the
islands fitted to his home.

2. It is felt to lower the dignity of the white agricultural
laborer in Queensland, and beyond a doubt it lowers his wages
there.

3. The whole system is fraught with danger to Australia and
the islands on the score of health.

4. On social and political grounds the continuance of the
Queensland Kanaka Labor Traffic must be a barrier to the true
federation of the Australian colonies.

5. The Regulations under which the Traffic exists in Queens
land are inadequate to prevent abuses, and in the nature o
things they must remain so.

6. The whole system is contrary to the spirit and doctrine
of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The Gospel requires us to help
the weak, but the Kanaka is fleeced and trodden down.

7. The bed-rock of this Traffic is that the life and liberty of a
black man are of less value than those of a white man. And a
Traffic that has grown out of "slave-hunting" will certainly re-
main to the end not unlike its origin.

71

CHAPTER VII

Truth Is the most valuable thing we have. Let us economize It.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

FROM Diary : — For a day or two we have been
plowing among an invisible vast wilderness of
islands, catching now and then a shadowy glimpse
of a member of it. There does seem to be a pro-
digious lot of islands this year; the map of this
region is freckled and fly-specked all over with them.
Their number would seem to be uncountable. We
are moving among the Fijis now — two hundred and
twenty-four islands and islets in the group. In front
of us, to the west, the wilderness stretches toward Aus-
tralia, then curves upward to New Guinea, and still up
and up to Japan ; behind us, to the east, the wilderness
stretches sixty degrees across the wastes of the Pacific ;
south of us is New Zealand. Somewhere or other
among these myriads Samoa is concealed, and not
discoverable on the map. Still, if you wish to go
there, you will have no trouble about finding it if you
follow the directions given by Robert Louis Stevenson
to Dr. Conan Doyle and to Mr. J. M. Barrie. "You
go to America, cross the continent to San Francisco,
and then it's the second turning to the left." To
get the full flavor of the joke one must take a glance
at the map.

Wednesday, Sept. n. Yesterday we passed close

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

to an island or so, and recognized the published
Fiji characteristics: a broad belt of clean white
coral sand around the island; back of it a graceful
fringe of leaning palms, with native huts nestling
cozily among the shrubbery at their bases ; back of
these a stretch of level land clothed in tropic vegeta-
tion; back of that, rugged and picturesque moun-
tains. A detail of the immediate foreground: a
moldering ship perched high upon a reef -bench.

This completes the composition, and makes the
picture artistically perfect.

In the afternoon we sighted Suva, the capital of
the group, and threaded our way into the secluded
little harbor — a placid basin of brilliant blue and
green water tucked snugly in among the sheltering
hills. A few ships rode at anchor in it — one of
them a sailing-vessel flying the American flag; and
they said she came from Duluth! There's a jour-
ney! Duluth is several thousand miles from the
sea, and yet she is entitled to the proud name of
Mistress of the Commercial Marine of the United
States of America. There is only one free, inde-
pendent, unsubsidized American ship sailing the
foreign seas, and Duluth owns it. All by itself that
ship is the American fleet. All by itself it causes
the American name and power to be respected in
the far regions of the globe. All by itself it certifies
to the world that the most populous civilized nation
in the earth has a just pride in her stupendous stretch
of sea-front, and is determined to assert and main-
tain her rightful place as one of the Great Maritime
Powers of the Planet. All by itself it is making

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MARK TWAIN

foreign eyes familiar with a Flag which they have not
seen before for forty years, outside of the museum.
For what Duluth has done, in building, equipping,
and maintaining at her sole expense the American
Foreign Commercial Fleet, and in thus rescuing the
American name from shame and lifting it high for
the homage of the nations, we owe her a debt of
gratitude which our hearts shall confess with quick-
ened beats whenever her name is named henceforth.
Many national toasts will die in the lapse of time,
but while the flag flies and the Republic survives,
they who live under their shelter will still drink this
cne, standing and uncovered: Health and pros-
perity to Thee, O Duluth, American Queen of the
Alien Seas!

Rowboats began to flock from the shore; their
crews were the first natives we had seen. These
men carried no overplus of clothing, and this was
wise, for the weather was hot. Handsome, great
dusky men they were, muscular, clean-limbed, and
with faces full of character and intelligence. It
would be hard to find their superiors anywhere
among the dark races, I should think.

Everybody went ashore to look around, and spy
out the land, and have that luxury of luxuries to sea-
voyagers — a land-dinner. And there we saw more
natives: Wrinkled old women, with their flat mam-
mals flung over their shoulders, or hanging down in
front like the cold-weather drip from the molasses
faucet; plump and smily young girls, blithe and
content, easy and graceful, a pleasure to look at;
young matrons, tall, straight, comely, nobly built,

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

^weeping by with chin up, and a gait incomparable
>r unconscious stateliness and dignity; majestic
young men — athletes for build and muscle — clothed
it a loose arrangement of dazzling white, with bronze
bieast and bronze legs naked, and the head a cannon-
swab of solid hair combed straight out from the
skill and dyed a rich brick-red. Only sixty years
ago they were sunk in darkness; now they have
the bicycle.

We strolled about the streets of the white folks'
little town, and around over the hills by paths and
roads among European dwellings and gardens and
plantations, and past clumps of hibiscus that made a
body blink, the great blossoms were so intensely red ;
and by and by we stopped to ask an elderly English
colonist a question or two, and to sympathize with
him concerning the torrid weather; but he was sur-
prised, and said:

"This? This is not hot. You ought to be here
in the summer-time once."

"We supposed that this was summer; it has the
earmarks of it. You could take it to almost any
country and deceive people with it. But if it isn't
summer, what does it lack?"

"It lacks half a year. This is midwinter."

I had been suffering from colds for several months,
and a sudden change of season, like this, could hardly
fail to do me hurt. It brought on another cold. It
is odd, these sudden jumps from season to season.
A fortnight ago we left America in midsummer,
now it is midwinter; about a week hence we shall
arrive in Australia in the spring.

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MARK TWAIN

After dinner I found in the billiard-room a resident
whom I had known somewhere else in the world, ard
presently made some new friends and drove wi:h
them out into the country to visit his Excellency the
head of the State, who was occupying his coun:ry
residence, to escape the rigors of the winter weather,
I suppose, for it was on breezy high ground and
much more comfortable than the lower regions,
where the town is, and where the winter has full
swing, and often sets a person's hair afire when he
takes off his hat to bow. There is a noble and
beautiful view of ocean and islands and castellated
peaks from the governor's high-placed house, and
its immediate surroundings lie drowsing in that
dreamy repose and serenity which are the charm of
life in the Pacific Islands.

One of the new friends who went out there with
me was a large man, and I had been admiring his
size all the way. I was still admiring it as he stood
by the governor on the veranda, talking; then the
Fijian butler stepped out there to announce tea, and
dwarfed him. Maybe he did not quite dwarf him,
but at any rate the contrast was quite striking. Per-
haps that dark giant was a king in a condition of
political suspension. I think that in the talk there
on the veranda it was said that in Fiji, as in the
Sandwich Islands, native kings and chiefs are of
much grander size and build than the commoners.
This man was clothed in flowing white vestments,
and they were just the thing for him; they com-
ported well with his great stature and his kingly port
and dignity. European clothes would have degraded

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urn and made him commonplace. I know that, be-
cause they do that with everybody that wears them.

It was said that the old-time devotion to chiefs
and reverence for their persons still survive in the
native commoner, and in great force. The educated
young gentleman who is chief of the tribe that live in
the region about the capital dresses in the fashion of
high-class European gentlemen, but even his clothes
cannot damn him in the reverence of his people.
Their pride in his lofty rank and ancient lineage lives
on, in spite of his lost authority and the evil magic
of his tailor. He has no need to defile himself with
work, or trouble his heart with the sordid cares of
life; the tribe will see to it that he shall not want,
and that he shall hold up his head and live like a
gentleman. I had a glimpse of him down in the
town. Perhaps he is a descendant of the last king —
the king with the difficult name whose memory is
preserved by a notable monument of cut stone which
one sees in the inclosure in the middle of the town.
Thakombau — I remember, now; that is the name.
It is easier to preserve it on a granite block than in
your head.

Fiji was ceded to England by this king in 1858.
One of the gentlemen present at the governor's
quoted a remark made by the king at the time of
the cession — a neat retort, and with a touch of ■
pathos in it, too. The English Commissioner had
offered a crumb of comfort to Thakombau by saying
that the transfer of the kingdom to Great Britain was
merely "a sort of hermit-crab formality, you know.'
"Yes," said poor Thakombau, "but with this differ-

77

>>

MARK TWAIN

ence — the crab moves into an unoccupied shell, bu:
mine isn't."

However, as far as I can make out from the books,
the king was between the devil and the deep sea at
the time, and hadn't much choice. He owed the Unit-
ed States a large debt — a debt which he could pay
if allowed time, but time was denied him. He must pay
up right away or the war-ships would be upon him.
To protect his people from this disaster he ceded his
country to Britain, with a clause in the contract pro-
viding for the ultimate payment of the American debt.

In old times the Fijians were fierce fighters; they
were very religious, and worshiped idols; the big
chiefs were proud and haughty, and they were men
of great style in many ways; all chiefs had several
wives, the biggest chiefs sometimes had as many as
fifty; when a chief was dead and ready for burial,
four or five of his wives were strangled and put into
the grave with him. In 1804 twenty-seven British
convicts escaped from Australia to Fiji, and brought
guns and ammunition with them. Consider what a
power they were, armed like that, and what an op-
portunity they had. If they had been energetic men
and sober, and had had brains and known how to
use them, they could have achieved the sovereignty
of the archipelago — twenty-seven kings and each
with eight or nine islands under his scepter. But
nothing came of this chance. They lived worthless
lives of sin and luxury, and died without honor — in
most cases by violence. Only one of them had any
ambition; he was an Irishman named Connor. He
tried to raise a family of fifty children, and scored

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

forty-eight. He died lamenting his failure. It was
a foolish sort of avarice. Many a father would have
been rich with forty.

It is a fine race, the Fijians, with brains in their
heads and an inquiring turn of mind. It appears
that their savage ancestors had a doctrine of immor-
tality in their scheme of religion — with limitations.
That is to say, their dead friend would go to a happy
hereafter if he could be accumulated, but not other-
wise. They drew the line; they thought that the
missionary's doctrine was too sweeping, too compre-
hensive. They called his attention to certain facts.
For instance, many of their friends had been de-
voured by sharks; the sharks, in their turn, were
caught and eaten by other men; later, these men
were captured in war, and eaten by the enemy. The
original persons had entered into the composition of
the sharks; next, they and the sharks had become
part of the flesh and blood and bone of the can-
nibals. How, then, could the particles of the orig-
inal men be searched out from the final conglomerate
and put together again ? The inquirers were full of
doubts, and considered that the missionary had not
examined the matter with the gravity and attention
which so serious a thing deserved.

The missionary taught these exacting savages
many valuable things, and got from them one — a
very dainty and poetical idea : Those wild and igno-
rant poor children of Nature believed that the flow-
ers, after they perish, rise on the winds and float
away to the fair fields of heaven, and flourish there
forever in immortal beauty !

79

CHAPTER VIII

It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native
American criminal class except Congress. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WHEN one glances at the map the members of
the stupendous island wilderness of the Pacific
seem to crowd upon each other; but no, there is no
crowding, even in the center of a group; and be-
tween groups there are lonely wide deserts of sea.
Not everything is known about the islands, their
peoples and their languages. A startling reminder
of this is furnished by the fact that in Fiji, twenty
years ago, were living two strange and solitary
beings who came from an unknown country and
spoke an unknown language. "They were picked
up by a passing vessel many hundreds of miles from
any known land, floating in the same tiny canoe in
which they had been blown out to sea. When found
they were but skin and bone. No one could under-
stand what they said, and they have never named
their country; or, if they have, the name does not
correspond with that of any island on any chart.
They are now fat and sleek, and as happy as the day
is long. In the ship's log there is an entry of the
latitude and longitude in which they were found,
and this is probably all the clue they will ever have
to their lost homes."1

1 Forbes's Two Years in Fiji.
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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

What a strange and romantic episode it is; and
how one is tortured with curiosity to know whence
those mysterious creatures came, those Men Without
a Country, errant waifs who cannot name their lost
home, wandering Children of Nowhere.

Indeed, the Island Wilderness is the very home of
romance and dreams and mystery. The loneliness,
the solemnity, the beauty, and the deep repose of
this wilderness have a charm which is all their own
for the bruised spirit of men who have fought and
failed in the struggle for life in the great world ; and '
for men who have been hunted out of the great
world for crime; and for other men who love an easy
and indolent existence; and for others who love a
roving free life, and stir and change and adventure;
and for yet others who love an easy and comfortable
career of trading and money-getting, mixed with
plenty of loose matrimony by purchase, divorce
without trial or expense, and limitless spreeing
thrown in to make life ideally perfect.

We sailed again, refreshed.

The most cultivated person in the ship was a
young Englishman whose home was in New Zealand.
He was a naturalist. His learning in his specialty
was deep and thorough, his interest in his subject
amounted to a passion, he had an easy gift of speech;
and so, when he talked about animals it was a
pleasure to listen to him. And profitable, too,
though he was sometimes difficult to understand
because now and then he used scientific technicalities
which were above the reach of some of us. They
were pretty sure to be above my reach, but as he

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MARK TWAIN

was quite willing to explain them I always made it a
point to get him to do it. I had a fair knowledge of
his subject — layman's knowledge — to begin with,
but it was his teachings which crystallized it into
scientific form and clarity — in a word, gave it
value.

His special interest was the fauna of Australasia,
and his knowledge of the matter was as exhaustive
as it was accurate. I already knew a good deal
about the rabbits in Australasia and their marvelous
fecundity, but in my talks with him I found that my
estimate of the great hindrance and obstruction
inflicted by the rabbit pest upon traffic and travel
was far short of the facts. He told me that the first
pair of rabbits imported into Australasia bred so
wonderfully that within six months rabbits were so
thick in the land that people had to dig trenches
through them to get from town to town.

He told me a great deal about worms, and the
kangaroo, and other coleoptera, and said he knew
the history and ways of all such pachydermata. He
said the kangaroo had pockets, and carried its young
in them when it couldn't get apples. And he said
that the emu was as big as an ostrich, and looked
like one, and had an amorphous appetite and would
eat bricks. Also, that the dingo was not a dingo at
all, but just a wild dog; and that the only dif-
ference between a dingo and a dodo was that nei-
ther of them barked; otherwise they were just the
same.

He said that the only game-bird in Australasia
was the wombat, and the only song-bird the larrikin,

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

and that both were protected by government. The
most beautiful of the native birds was the bird of
paradise. Next came the two kinds of lyres; not
spelt the same. He said the one kind was dying
out, the other thickening up. He explained that
the "Sundowner was not a bird, it was a man;
sundowner was merely the Australian equivalent of
our word, tramp. He is a loafer, a hard drinker,
and a sponge. He tramps across the country in the
sheep-shearing season, pretending to look for work;
but he always times himself to arrive at a sheep-run
just at sundown, when the day's labor ends; all he
wants is whisky and supper and bed and breakfast;
he gets them and then disappears. The naturalist
spoke of the bell-bird, the creature that at short
intervals all day rings out its mellow and exquisite
peal from the deeps of the forest. It is the favorite
and best friend of the weary and thirsty sundowner;
for he knows that wherever the bell-bird is, there is
water; and he goes somewhere else. The naturalist
said that the oddest bird in Australasia was the
Laughing Jackass, and the biggest the now extinct
Great Moa.

The Moa stood thirteen feet high, and could step
over an ordinary man's head or kick his hat off;
and his head, too, for that matter. He said it was
wingless, but a swift runner. The natives used to
ride it. It could make forty miles an hour, and
keep it up for four hundred miles and come out
reasonably fresh. It was still in existence when the
railway was introduced into New Zealand; still in
existence and carrying the mails. The railroad

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MARK TWAIN

began with the same schedule it has now: two
expresses a week — time, twenty miles an hour.
The company exterminated the Moa to get the

mails.

Speaking of the indigenous coneys and bactrian
camels, the naturalist said that the coniferous and
bacteriological output of Australasia was remarkable
for its many and curious departures from the ac-
cepted laws governing these species of tubercles, but
that in his opinion Nature's fondness for dabbling
in the erratic was most notably exhibited in that
curious combination of bird, fish, amphibian, bur-
rower, crawler, quadruped, and Christian called the
Ornithorhyncus — grotesquest of animals, king of the
animalcule of the world for versatility of character
and make-up. Said he :

You can call it anything you want to, and be right. It is a
fish, for it lives in the river half the time; it is a land-animal, for
it resides on the land half the time; it is an amphibian, since it
likes both and does not know which it prefers; it is a hybernian,
for when times are dull and nothing much going on it buries
itself under the mud at the bottom of a puddle and hybernates
there a couple of weeks at a time; it is a kind of duck, for it has
a duck-bill and four webbed paddles; it is a fish and quadruped
together, for in the water it swims with the paddles and on shore
it paws itself across country with them; it is a kind of seal, for
it has a seal's fur; it is carnivorous, herbivorous, insectivorous,
and vermifuginous, for it eats fish and grass and butterflies, and
in the season digs worms out of the mud and devours them; it is
clearly a bird, for it lays eggs and hatches them; it is clearly a
mammal, for it nurses its young; and it is manifestly a kind of
Christian, for it keeps the Sabbath when there is anybody around,
and when there isn't, doesn't. It has all the tastes there are
except refined ones, it has all the habits there are except good
ones.

It is a survival— a survival of the fittest. Mr. Darwin in-

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

vented the theory that goes by that name, but the Ornithorhyn-
cus was the first to put it to actual experiment and prove that
it could be done. Hence it should have as much of the credit
as Mr. Darwin. It was never in the Ark; you will find no men-
tion of it there; it nobly stayed out and worked the theory. Of
all creatures in the world it was the only one properly equipped
for the test. The Ark was thirteen months afloat, and all the
globe submerged; no land visible above the flood, no vegetation,
no food for a mammal to eat, nor water for a mammal to drink;
for all mammal food was destroyed, and when the pure floods
from heaven and the salt oceans of the earth mingled their
waters and rose above the mountain-tops, the result was a drink
which no bird or beast of ordinary construction could use and
live. But this combination was nuts for the Ornithorhyncus, if
I may use a term like that without offense. Its river home had
always been salted by the flood-tides of the sea. On the face
of the Noachian deluge innumerable forest trees were floating.
Upon these the Ornithorhyncus voyaged in peace; voyaged
from clime to clime, from hemisphere to hemisphere, in content-
ment and comfort, in virile interest in the constant change of
scene, in humble thankfulness for its privileges, in ever-increasing
enthusiasm in the development of the great theory upon whose
validity it had staked its life, its fortunes, and its sacred honor,
if I may use such expressions without impropriety in connection
with an episode of this nature.

It lived the tranquil and luxurious life of a creature of inde-
pendent means. Of things actually necessary to its existence
and its happiness not a detail was wanting. When it wished to
walk, it scrambled along the tree-trunk; it mused in the shade
of the leaves by day, it slept in their shelter by night; when it
wanted the refreshment of a swim, it had it; it ate leaves when
it wanted a vegetable diet, it dug under the bark for worms and
grubs; when it wanted fish it caught them, when it wanted eggs
it laid them. If the grubs gave out in one tree it swam to an-
other; and as for fish, the very opulence of the supply was an
embarrassment. And finally, when it was thirsty it smacked
its chops in gratitude over a blend that would have slain a
crocodile.

When at last, after thirteen months of travel and research in
all the Zones, it went aground on a mountain-summit, it strode
ashore, saying in its heart, "Let them that come after me invent

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MARK TWAIN

theories and dream dreams about the Survival of the Fittest if
they like, but I am the first that has done ibl"J

This wonderful creature dates back, like the' kangaroo and
many other Australian hydrocephalus invertebrates, to an a?e
long anterior to the advent of man upon the earth; they date
back, indeed, to a time when a causeway, hundreds of miles
wide and thousands of miles long, joined Australia to Africa,
and the animals of the two countries were alike, and all be-
longed to that remote geological epoch known to science as the
Old Red Grindstone Post-Pleosaurian. Later the causeway sank
under the sea; subterranean convulsions lifted the African con-
tinent a thousand feet higher than it was before, but Australia
kept her old level. In Africa's new climate the animals neces-
sarily began to develop and shade off into new forms and families
and species, but the animals of Australia as necessarily remained
stationary, and have so remained until this day. In the course of
some millions of years the African Ornithorhyncus developed and
developed and developed, and sloughed off detail after detail of
its make-up until at last the creature became wholly disintegrated
and scattered. Whenever you see a bird or a beast or a seal or
an otter in Africa you know that he is merely a sorry surviving
fragment of that sublime original of whom I have been speak-
ing— that creature which was everything in general and nothing
in particular — the opulently endowed e pluribus unum of the
animal world.

Such is the history of the most hoary, the most ancient, the
most venerable creature that exists in the earth to-day —
Ornithorhyncus Platypus Extraordinariensis — whom God pre-
serve!

When he was strongly moved he could rise and
soar like that with ease. And not only in the prose
form, but in the poetical as well. He had written
many pieces of poetry in his time, and these manu-
scripts he lent around among the passengers, and
was willing to let them be copied. It seemed to me
that the least technical one in the series, and the
one which reached the loftiest note, perhaps, was his

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INVOCATION

Come forth from thy oozy couch,

O Ornithorhyncus dear!
And greet with a cordial claw

The stranger that longs to hear

From thy own lips the tale

Of thy origin all unknown:
Thy misplaced bone where flesh should be

And flesh where should be bone;

And fishy fin where should be paw,

And beaver-trowel tail,
And snout of beast equip'd with teeth

Where gills ought to prevail.

Come, Kangaroo, the good and truel

Foreshortened as to legs,
And body tapered like a churn,

And sack marsupial, i' fegs,

And tell us why you linger here,

Thou relic of a vanished time,
When all your friends as fossils sleep,

Immortalized in lime!

Perhaps no poet is a conscious plagiarist; but
there seems to be warrant for suspecting that there
is no poet who is not at one time or another an
unconscious one. The above verses are indeed beau-
tiful, and, in a way, touching; but there is a haunting
something about them which unavoidably suggests
the Sweet Singer of Michigan. It can hardly be
doubted that the author had read the works of that
poet and been impressed by them. It is not apparent
that he has borrowed from them any word or yet
any phrase, but the style and swing and mastery

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MARK TWAIN

and melody of the Sweet Singer all are there. Com-
pare this Invocation with "Frank Dutton" — par-
ticularly stanzas first and seventeenth — and I think
the reader will feel convinced that he who wrot©>
the one had read the other:1

Frank Dutton was as fine a lad

As ever you wish to see,
And he was drowned in Pine Island Lake,

On earth no more will he be,
His age was near fifteen years,

And he was a motherless boy,
Pie was living with his grandmother

When he was drowned, poor boy.

XVII

He was drowned on Tuesday afternoon,

On Sunday he was found,
And the tidings of that drowned boy

Was heard for miles around.
His form was laid by his mother's side,

Beneath the cold, cold ground,
His friends for him will drop a tear

When they view his little mound.

* The Sentimental Song Book. By Mrs. Julia Moore, p. 36.

88

CHAPTER IX

Xt is your human environment that makes climate.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

SEPT. 15 — Night. Close to Australia now. Syd-
ney fifty miles distant.
That note recalls an experience. The passengers
were sent for, to come up in the bow and see a fine
sight. It was very dark. One could not follow
with the eye the surface of the sea more than fifty
yards in any direction — it dimmed away and became
lost to sight at about that distance from us. But
if you patiently gazed into the darkness a little
while, there was a sure reward for you. Presently,
a quarter of a mile away you would see a blinding
splash or explosion of light on the water — a flash
so sudden and so astonishingly brilliant that it would
make you catch your breath; then that blotch of
light would instantly extend itself and take the
corkscrew shape and imposing length of the fabled
sea-serpent, with every curve of its body and the
"break" spreading away from its head, and the
wake following behind its tail clothed in a fierce
splendor of living fire. And my, but it was coming
at a lightning gait ! Almost before you could think,
this monster of light, fifty feet long, would go flaming
and storming by, and suddenly disappear. And out

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MARK TWAIN

in the distance whence he came you would see
another flash ; and another and another and another,
and see them turn into sea-serpents on the instant;
and once sixteen flashed up at the same time and
came tearing toward us, a swarm of wiggling curves,
a moving conflagration, a vision of bewildering
beauty, a spectacle of fire and energy whose equal
the most of those people will not see again until
after they are dead.

It was porpoises — porpoises aglow with phosphor-
escent light. They presently collected in a wild
and magnificent jumble under the bows, and there
they played for an hour, leaping and frolicking and
carrying on, turning somersaults in front of the stem
or across it and never getting hit, never making a
miscalculation, though the stem missed them only
about an inch, as a rule. They were porpoises of
the ordinary length — eight or ten feet — but every
twist of their bodies sent a long procession of united
and glowing curves astern. That fiery jumble was an
enchanting thing to look at, and we stayed out the
performance; one cannot have such a show as that
twice in a lifetime. The porpoise is the kitten of
the sea; he never has a serious thought, he cares for
nothing but fun and play. But I think I never saw
him at his winsomest until that night. It was near
a center of civilization, and he could have been
drinking.

By and by, when we had approached to some-
where within thirty miles of Sydney Heads the great
electric light that is posted on one of those lofty
ramparts began to show, and in time the little spark

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grew to a great sun and pierced the firmament of
darkness with a far-reaching sword of light.

Sydney Harbor is shut in behind a precipice that
extends some miles like a wall, and exhibits no
break to the ignorant stranger. It has a break in
the middle, but it makes so little show that even
Captain Cook sailed by it without seeing it. Near
by that break is a false break which resembles it,
and which used to make trouble for the mariner at
night, in the early days before the place was lighted.
It caused the memorable disaster to the Duncan
Dunbar, one of the most pathetic tragedies in the
history of that pitiless ruffian, the sea. The ship
was a sailing-vessel; a fine and favorite passenger-
packet, commanded by a popular captain of high
reputation. She was due from England, and Syd-
ney was waiting, and counting the hours; counting
the hours, and making ready to give her a heart-
stirring welcome; for she was bringing back a great
company of mothers and daughters, the long-missed
light and bloom of life of Sydney homes; daughters
that had been years absent at school, and mothers
that had been with them all that time watching over
them. Of all the world only India and Australasia
have by custom freighted ships and fleets with their
hearts, and know the tremendous meaning of that
phrase; only they know what the waiting is like
when this freightage is intrusted to the fickle winds,
not steam, and what the joy is like when the ship
that is returning this treasure comes safe to port and
the long dread is over.

On board the Duncan Dunbar, flying toward

Vol. 15 " D — M. T.

MARK TWAIN

Sydney Heads in the waning afternoon, the happy
home-comers made busy preparation, for it was not
doubted that they would be in the arms of their
friends before the day was done; they put away
their sea-going clothes and put on clothes meeter
for the meeting, their richest and their loveliest,
these poor brides of the grave. But the wind lost
force, or there was a miscalculation, and before the
Heads were sighted the darkness came on. It was
said that ordinarily the captain would have made a
safe offing and waited for the morning ; but this was
no ordinary occasion; all about him were appealing
faces, faces pathetic with disappointment. So his
sympathy moved him to try the dangerous passage
in the dark. He had entered the Heads seventeen
times, and believed he knew the ground. So he
steered straight for the false opening, mistaking it
for the true one. He did not find out that he was
wrong until it was too late. There was no saving
the ship. The great seas swept her in and crushed
her to splinters and rubbish upon the rock tushes at
the base of the precipice. Not one of all that fair
and gracious company was ever seen again alive.
The tale is told to every stranger that passes the
spot, and it will continue to be told to all that come,
for generations; but it will never grow old, custom
cannot stale it, the heartbreak that is in it can never
perish out of it.

There were two hundred persons in the ship, and
but one survived the disaster. He was a sailor. A
huge sea flung him up the face of the precipice and
stretched him on a narrow shelf of rock midway

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between the top and the bottom, and there he lay-
all night. At any other time he would have lain
there for the rest of his life, without chance of dis-
covery; but the next morning the ghastly news
swept through Sydney that the Duncan Dunbar had
gone down in sight of home, and straightway the
walls of the Heads were black with mourners; and
one of these, stretching himself out over the preci-
pice to spy out what might be seen below, discov-
ered this miraculously preserved relic of the wreck.
Ropes were brought, and the nearly impossible feat
of rescuing the man was accomplished. He was a
person with a practical turn of mind, and he hired a
hall in Sydney and exhibited himself at sixpence a
head till he exhausted the output of the gold-fields
for that year.

We entered and cast anchor, and in the morning
went oh-ing and ah-ing in admiration up through
the crooks and turns of the spacious and beautiful
harbor — a harbor which is the darling of Sydney
and the wonder of the world. It is not surprising
that the people are proud of it, nor that they put
their enthusiasm into eloquent words. A returning
citizen asked me what I thought of it, and I testified
with a cordiality which I judged would be up to the
market rate. I said it was beautiful — superbly
beautiful. Then by a natural impulse I gave God
the praise. The citizen did not seem altogether
satisfied. He said :

"It is beautiful, of course it's beautiful — the
Harbor; but that isn't all of it, it's only half of it;
Sydney's the other half, and it takes both of them

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MARK TWAIN

together to ring the supremacy-bell. God made the
Harbor, and that's all right; but Satan made
Sydney."

Of course I made an apology; and asked him to
convey it to his friend. He was right about Sydney
being half of it. It would be beautiful without Syd-
ney, but not above half as beautiful as it is now,
with Sydney added. It is shaped somewhat like an
oak-leaf — a roomy sheet of lovely blue water, with
narrow off-shoots of water running up into the
country on both sides between long fingers of land,
high wooden ridges with sides sloped like graves.
Handsome villas are perched here and there on these
ridges, snuggling amongst the foliage, and one catches
alluring glimpses of them as the ship swims by toward
the city. The city clothes a cluster of hills and a
ruffle of neighboring ridges with its undulating
masses of masonry, and out of these masses spring
towers and spires and other architectural dignities
and grandeurs that break the flowing lines and give
picturesqueness to the general effect.

The narrow inlets which I have mentioned go
wandering out into the land everywhere and hiding
themselves in it, and pleasure launches are always
exploring them with picnic parties on board. It is
said by trustworthy people that if you explore them
all you will find that you have covered seven hundred
miles of water passage. But there are liars every-
where this year, and they will double that when their
works are in good going order.

October was close at hand, spring was come. It
was really spring — everybody said so; but you could

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have sold it for summer in Canada, and nobody-
would have suspected. It was the very weather
that makes our home summers the perfection of
climatic luxury; I mean, when you are out in the
wood or by the sea. But these people said it was
cool, now — a person ought to see Sydney in the
summer-time if he wanted to know what warm
weather is; and he ought to go north ten or fifteen
hundred miles if he wanted to know what hot
weather is. They said that away up there toward
the equator the hens laid fried eggs. Sydney is the
place to go to get information about other people's
climates. It seems to me that the occupation of
Unbiased Traveler Seeking Information is the pleas-
antest and most irresponsible trade there is. The
traveler can always find out anything he wants to,
merely by asking. He can get at all the facts, and
more. Everybody helps him, nobody hinders him.
Anybody who has an old fact in stock that is no
longer negotiable in the domestic market will let him
have it at his own price. An accumulation of such
goods is easily and quickly made. They cost almost
nothing and they bring par in the foreign market.
Travelers who come to America always freight up
with the same old nursery tales that their predeces-
sors selected, and they carry them back and always
work them off without any trouble in the home
market.

If the climates of the world were determined by
parallels of latitude, then we could know a place's
climate by its position on the map ; and so we should
know that the climate of Sydney was the counter-

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MARK TWAIN

part of the climate of Columbia, South Carolina,
and of Little Rock, Arkansas, since Sydney is about
the same distance south of the equator that those
other towns are north of it — thirty-four degrees.
But no, climate disregards the parallels of latitude.
In Arkansas they have a winter; in Sydney they
have the name of it, but not the thing itself. I
have seen the ice in the Mississippi floating past
the mouth of the Arkansas River; and at Mem-
phis, but a little way above, the Mississippi has
been frozen over, from bank to bank. But they
have never had a cold spell in Sydney which
brought the mercury down to freezing-point. Once
in a midwinter day there, in the month of July,
the mercury went down to thirty-six degrees, and
that remains the memorable "cold day" in the
history of the town. No doubt Little Rock has seen
it below zero. Once, in Sydney, in midsummer,
about New Year's Day, the mercury went up to one
hundred and six degrees in the shade, and that is
Sydney's memorable hot day. That would about
tally with Little Rock's hottest day also, I imagine.
My Sydney figures are taken from a government
report, and are trustworthy. In the matter of sum-
mer weather Arkansas has no advantage over Sydney,
perhaps, but when it comes to winter weather, that
is another affair. You could cut up an Arkansas
winter into a hundred Sydney winters and have
enough left for Arkansas and the poor.

The whole narrow, hilly belt of the Pacific side of
New South Wales has the climate of its capital — a
mean winter temperature of fifty-four degrees and a

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mean summer one of seventy-one degrees. It is a
climate which cannot be improved upon for health-
fulness. But the experts say that ninety degrees in
New South Wales is harder to bear than one hundred
and twelve degrees in the neighboring colony of
Victoria, because the atmosphere of the former is
humid, and of the latter dry.

The mean temperature of the southernmost point
of New South Wales is the same as that of Nice —
sixty degrees — yet Nice is further from the equator
by four hundred and sixty miles than is the former.

But Nature is always stingy of perfect climates;
stingier in the case of Australia than usual. Ap-
parently, this vast continent has a really good
climate nowhere but around the edges.

If we look at a map of the world we are surprised
to see how big Australia is. It is about two-thirds
as large as the United States was before we added
Alaska.

But whereas one finds a sufficiently good climate
and fertile land almost everywhere in the United
States, it seems settled that inside of the Australian
border-belt one finds many deserts and in spots a
climate which nothing can stand except a few of the
hardier kinds of rocks. In effect, Australia is as
yet unoccupied. If you take a map of the United
States and leave the Atlantic seaboard states in
their places ; also the fringe of Southern states from
Florida west to the mouth of the Mississippi; also
a narrow, inhabited streak up the Mississippi half-
way to its headwaters; also a narrow, inhabited
border along the Pacific coast ; then take a brushf ul

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MARK TWAIN

of paint and obliterate the whole remaining mighty-
stretch of country that lies between the Atlantic
states and the Pacific-coast strip, your map will
look like the latest map of Australia.

This stupendous blank is hot, not to say torrid;
a part of it is fertile, the rest is desert; it is not
liberally watered; it has no towns. One has only
to cross the mountains of New South Wales and
descend into the westward-lying regions to find that

he has left the choice climate behind him, and found
a new one of a quite different character. In fact, he
would not know by the thermometer that he was not
in the blistering Plains of India. Captain Sturt, the
great explorer, gives us a sample of the heat.

The wind, which had been blowing all the morning from the
N.E., increased to a heavy gale, and I shall never forget its
withering effect. I sought shelter behind a large gum tree, but
the blasts of heat were so terrific that I wondered the very grass
did not take fire. This really was nothing ideal: everything
both animate and inanimate gave way before it; the horses
stood with their backs to the wind and their noses to the ground,
without the muscular strength to raise their heads; the birds
were mute, and the leaves of the trees under which we were

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sitting fell like a snow-shower around us. At noon I took a ther-
mometer graded to 1270, out of my box, and observed that the
mercury was up to 1250. Thinking that it had been unduly
influenced, I put it in the fork of a tree close to me, sheltered
alike from the wind and the sun. I went to examine it about an
hour afterward, when I found the mercury had risen to the top
of the instrument and had burst the bulb, a circumstance that I
believe no traveler has ever before had to record. I cannot find
language to convey to the reader's mind an idea of the intense
and oppressive nature of the heat that prevailed.

That hot wind sweeps over Sydney sometimes,
and brings with it what is called a "dust-storm."
It is said that most Australian towns are acquainted
with the dust-storm. I think I know what it is like,
for the following description by Mr. Gane tallies very
well with the alkali dust-storm of Nevada, if you
leave out the "shovel" part. Still the shovel part
is a pretty important part, and seems to indicate
that my Nevada storm is but a poor thing, after all.

As we proceeded the altitude became less, and the heat pro-
portionately greater until we reached Dubbo, which is only six
hundred feet above sea-level. It is a pretty town, built on an ex-
tensive plain. . . . After the effects of a shower of rain have passed
away the surface of the ground crumbles into a thick layer of
dust, and occasionally, when the wind is in a particular quarter,
it is lifted bodily from the ground in one long opaque cloud. In
the midst of such a storm nothing can be seen a few yards ahead,
and the unlucky person who happens to be out at the time is
compelled to seek the nearest retreat at hand. When the
thrifty housewife sees in the distance the dark column advancing
in a steady whirl toward her house, she closes the doors and
windows with all expedition. A drawing-room, the window of
which has been carelessly left open during a dust-storm, is indeed
an extraordinary sight. A lady who has resided in Dubbo for
some years says that the dust lies so thick on the carpet that it
is necessary to use a shovel to remove it.

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MARK TWAIN

And probably a wagon. I was mistaken; I have
not seen a proper dust-storm. To my mind the
exterior aspects and character of Australia are fasci-
nating things to look at and think about, they are
so strange, so weird, so new, so uncommonplace,
such a startling and interesting contrast to the other
sections of the planet, the sections that are known
to us all, familiar to us all. In the matter of par-
ticulars— a detail here, a detail there — we have had
the choice climate of New South Wales's seacoast ;
we have had the Australian heat as furnished by
Captain Sturt; we have had the wonderful dust-
storm; and we have considered the phenomenon of
an almost empty hot wilderness half as big as the
United States, with a narrow belt of civilization,
population, and good climate around it.

ioo

CHAPTER X

Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of Humor itself is not joy
but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

CAPTAIN COOK found Australia in 1770, and
eighteen }7ears later the British government
began to transport convicts to it. Altogether, New
South Wales received eighty- three thousand in fifty-
three years. The convicts wore heavy chains; they
Were ill-fed and badly treated by the officers set over
them; they were heavily punished for even slight
infractions of the rules; "the crudest discipline ever
known" is one historian's description of their life.1

English law was hard-hearted in those days. For
trifling offenses which in our day would be punished
by a small fine or a few days' confinement, men,
women, and boys were sent to this other end of the
earth to serve terms of seven and fourteen years;
and for serious crimes they were transported for life.
Children were sent to the penal colonies for seven
years for stealing a rabbit !

When I was in London twenty-three years ago
there was a new penalty in force for diminishing
garroting and wife-beating — twenty-five lashes on
the bare back with the cat-o'-nine-tails. It was said
that this terrible punishment was able to bring the

1 The Story of Australasia. J. S. Laurie.
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MARK TWAIN

stubbornest ruffians to terms; and that no man had
been found with grit enough to keep his emotions to
himself beyond the ninth blow; as a rule the man
shrieked earlier. That penalty had a great and
wholesome effect upon the garroters and wife-beaters ;
but humane modern London could not endure it ; it
got its law rescinded. Many a bruised and battered
English wife has since had occasion to deplore that
cruel achievement of sentimental "humanity."

Twenty-five lashes! In Australia and Tasmania
they gave a convict fifty for almost any little offense ;
and sometimes a brutal officer would add fifty, and
then another fifty, and so on, as long as the sufferer
could endure the torture and live. In Tasmania I
read the entry, in an old manuscript official record,
of a case where a convict was given three hundred
lashes — for stealing some silver spoons. And men
got more than that, sometimes. Who handled the
cat? Often it was another convict; sometimes it
was the culprit's dearest comrade; and he had to
lay on with all his might; otherwise he would get a
flogging himself for his mercy — for he was under
watch — and yet not do his friend any good: the
friend would be attended to by another hand and
suffer no lack in the matter of full punishment.

The convict life in Tasmania was so unendurable,
and suicide so difficult to accomplish, that once or
twice despairing men got together and drew straws
to determine which of them should kill another of
the group — this murder to secure death to the per-
petrator and to the witnesses of it by the hand of
the hangman!

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The incidents quoted above are mere hints, mere
suggestions of what convict life was like — they are
but a couple of details tossed into view out of a
shoreless sea of such; or, to change the figure, they
are but a pair of flaming steeples photographed
from a point which hides from sight the burning city
which stretches away from their bases on every hand.

Some of the convicts — indeed, a good many of
them — were very bad people, even for that day ; but
the most of them were probably not noticeably worse
than the average of the people they left behind them
at home. We must believe this; we cannot avoid
it. We are obliged to believe that a nation that
could look on, unmoved, and see starving or freezing
women hanged for stealing twenty-six cents' worth
of bacon or rags, and boys snatched from their
mothers, and men from their families, and sent to
the other side of the world for long terms of years
for similar ^trifling offenses, was a nation to whom
the term "civilized" could not in any large way be
applied. And we must also believe that a nation
that knew, during more than forty years, what was
happening to those exiles and was still content with
it, was not advancing in any showy way toward a
higher grade of civilization.

If we look into the characters and conduct of the
officers and gentlemen who had charge of the con-
victs and attended to their backs and stomachs, we
must grant again that as between the convict and his
masters, and between both and the nation at home,
there was a quite noticeable monotony of sameness.

Four years had gone by, and many convicts had

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come. Respectable settlers were beginning to arrive.
These two classes of colonists had to be protected,
in case of trouble among themselves or with the
natives. It is proper to mention the natives, though
they could hardly count, they were so scarce. At
a time when they had not as yet begun to be much
disturbed — not as yet being in the way — it was esti-
mated that in New South Wales there was but one
native to forty-five thousand acres of territory.

People had to be protected. Officers of the regular
army did not want this service — away off there
where neither honor nor distinction was to be gained.
So England recruited and officered a kind of militia
force of one thousand uniformed civilians called the
"New South Wales Corps" and shipped it.

This was the worst blow of all. The colony fairly
staggered under it. The Corps was an object-lesson
of the moral condition of England outside of the
jails. The colonists trembled. It was feared that
next there would be an importation of the nobility.

In those early days the colony was non-supporting.
All the necessaries of life — food, clothing, and all —
were sent out from England, and kept in great
government storehouses, and given to the convicts
and sold to the settlers — sold at a trifling advance
upon cost. The Corps saw its opportunity. Its
officers went into commerce, and in a most lawless
way. They went to importing rum, and also to
manufacturing it in private stills, in defiance of the
government's commands and protests. They leagued
themselves together and ruled the market ; they boy-
cotted the government and the other dealers; they

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established a close monopoly and kept it strictly in
their own hands. When a vessel arrived with spirits,
they allowed nobody to buy but themselves, and
they forced the owner to sell to them at a price
named by themselves — and it was always low enough.
They bought rum at an average of two dollars a
gallon and sold it at an average of ten. They made
rum the currency of the country — for there was little
or no money — and they maintained their devastating
hold and kept the colony under their heel for eighteen
or twenty years before they were finally conquered
and routed by the government.

Meantime, they had spread intemperance every-
where. And they had squeezed farm after farm out
of the settlers' hands for rum, and thus had boun-
tifully enriched themselves. When a farmer was
caught in the last agonies of thirst they took advan-
tage of him and sweated him for a drink.

In one instance they sold a man a gallon of rum
worth two dollars for a piece of property which was
sold some years later for one hundred thousand
dollars.

When the colony was about eighteen or twenty
years old it was discovered that the land was special-
ly fitted for the wool culture. Prosperity followed,
commerce with the world began, by and by rich
mines of the noble metals were opened, immigrants
flowed in, capital likewise. The result is the great
and wealthy and enlightened commonwealth of New
South Wales.

It is a country that is rich in mines, wool ranches,
trams, railways, steamship lines, schools, newspapers,

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MARK TWAIN

botanical gardens, art -galleries, libraries, museums,
hospitals, learned societies ; it is the hospitable home
of every species of culture and of every species of
material enterprise, and there is a church at every
man's door, and a race-track over the way.

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CHAPTER XT

We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it —
and stop there; lest we be like the cat that sits down on a hot stove-lid. She
will never sit down on a hot stove-lid again — and that is well; but also she will
never sit down on a cold one any more. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

ALL English-speaking colonies are made up of
L lavishly hospitable people, and New South
Wales and its capital are like the rest in this. The
English-speaking colony of the United States of
America is always called lavishly hospitable by the
English traveler. As to the other English-speaking
colonies throughout the world from Canada all
around, I know by experience that the description
fits them. I will not go more particularly into this
matter, for I find that when writers try to distribute
their gratitude here and there and yonder by detail
they run across difficulties and do some ungraceful
stumbling.

Mr. Gane (New South Wales and Victoria in 1885)
tried to distribute his gratitude, and was not lucky:

The inhabitants of Sydney are renowned for their hospitality.
The treatment which we experienced at the hands of this gener-
ous-hearted people will help more than anything else to make
us recollect with pleasure our stay amongst them. In the char-
acter of hosts and hostesses they excel. The "new chum " needs
only the acquaintanceship of one of their number, and he becomes
at once the happy recipient of numerous complimentary invita-
tions and thoughtful kindnesses. Of the towns it has been our
good fortune to visit, none have portrayed home so faithfully as
Sydney.

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MARK TWAIN

Nobody could say it finer than that. If he ha<S
put in his cork then, and stayed away from Dubbo
— but no; heedless man, he pulled it again. Pulled
it when he was away along in his book, and his
memory of what he had said about Sydney had
grown dim:

We cannot quit the promising town of Dubbo without testify-
ing, in warm praise, to the kind-hearted and hospitable usages
of its inhabitants. Sydney, though well deserving the character
it bears of its kindly treatment of strangers, possesses a little
formality and reserve. In Dubbo, on the contrary, though the
same congenial manners prevail, there is a pleasing degree of
respectful familiarity which gives the town a homely comfort
not often met with elsewhere. In laying on one side our pen
we feel contented in having been able, though so late in this
work, to bestow a panegyric, however unpretentious, on a town
which, though possessing no picturesque natural surroundings,
nor interesting architectural productions, has yet a body of
citizens whose hearts cannot but obtain for their town a reputa-
tion for benevolence and kind-heartedness.

I wonder what soured him on Sydney. It seems
strange that a pleasing degree of three or four ringers
of respectful familiarity should fill a man up and
give him the panegyrics so bad. For he has them,
the worst way — any one can see that. A man who
is perfectly at himself does not throw cold detraction
at people's architectural productions and picturesque
surroundings, and let on that what he prefers is a
Dubbonese dust-storm and a pleasing degree of
respectful familiarity. No, these are old, old symp-
toms; and when they appear we know that the man
has got the panegyrics.

Sydney has a population of four hundred thousand.
When a stranger from America steps ashore there,

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

the first thing that strikes him is that the place is
eight or nine times as large as he was expecting it to
be; and the next thing that strikes him is that it is
an English city with American trimmings. Later on,
in Melbourne, he will find the American trimmings
still more in evidence; there, even the architecture
will often suggest America; a photograph of its
stateliest business street might be passed upon him
for a picture of the finest street in a large American
city. I was told that the most of the fine residences
were the city residences of squatters. The name
seemed out of focus somehow. When the explana-
tion came, it offered a new instance of the curious
changes which words, as well as animals, undergo
through change of habitat and climate. With us,
when you speak of a squatter you are always supposed
to be speaking of a poor man, but in Australia when
you speak of a squatter you are supposed to be
speaking of a millionaire; in America the word
indicates the possessor of a few acres and a doubtful
title, in Australia it indicates a man whose land
front is as long as a railroad, and whose title has
been perfected in one way or another; in America
the word indicates a man who owns a dozen head of
live stock, in Australia a man who owns anywhere
from fifty thousand up to half a million head; in
America the word indicates a man who is obscure
and not important, in Australia a man who is promi-
nent and of the first importance; in America you
take off your hat to no squatter, in Australia you do;
in America if your uncle is a squatter you keep it
dark, in Australia you advertise it; in America if

109

MARK TWAIN'

your friend is a squatter nothing comes of it, but
with a squatter for your friend in Australia you may
sup with kings if there are any around.

In Australia it takes about two acres and a half of
pasture-land (some people say twice as many) to
support a sheep; and when the squatter has half a
million sheep his private domain is about as large as
Rhode Island, to speak in general terms. His
annual wool crop may be worth a quarter or a half
million dollars.

He will live in a palace in Melbourne or Sydney
or some other of the large cities, and make occasional
trips to his sheep-kingdom several hundred miles
away in the great plains to look after his battalions
of riders and shepherds and other hands. He has a
commodious dwelling out there, and if he approve
of you he will invite you to spend a week in it, and
will make you at home and comfortable, and let you
see the great industry in all its details, and feed you
and slake you and smoke you with the best that
money can buy.

On at least one of these vast estates there is a con-
siderable town, with all the various businesses and
occupations that go to make an important town;
and the town and the land it stands upon are the
property of the squatters. I have seen that town,
and it is not unlikely that there are other squatter-
owned towns in Australia.

Australia supplies the world not only with fine
wool, but with mutton also. The modern invention
of cold storage and its application in ships has
created this great trade. In Sydney I visited a huge

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

establishment where "they kill and clean and solidly
freeze a thousand sheep a day, for shipment to
England.

The Australians did not seem to me to differ
noticeably from Americans, either in dress, carriage,
ways, pronunciation, inflections, or general appear-
ance. There were fleeting and subtle suggestions of
their English origin, but these were not pronounced
enough, as a rule, to catch one's attention. The
people have easy and cordial manners from the be-
ginning— from the moment that the introduction is
completed. This is American. To put it in another
way, it is English friendliness with the English shy-
ness and self -consciousness left out.

Now and then — but this is rare — one hears such
words as piper for paper, lydy for lady, and tyble for
table fall from lips whence one would not expect
such pronunciations to come. There is a superstition
prevalent in Sydney that this pronunciation is an
Australianism, but people who have been "home'"
— as the native reverently and lovingly calls England
— know better. It is "costermonger." All over
Australasia this pronunciation is nearly as common
among servants as it is in London among the unedu-
cated and the partially educated of all sorts and con-
ditions of people. That mislaid y is rather striking
when a person gets enough of it into a short sentence
to enable it to show up. In the hotel in Sydney
the chambermaid said one morning:

"The tyble is set, and here is the piper; and if
the lydy is ready I'll tell the wyter to bring up the
breakfast."

in

MARK TWAIN

I have made passing mention, a moment ago, of
the native Australasian's custom of speaking of Eng-
land as "home." It was always pretty to hear it,
and often it was said in an unconsciously caressing
way that made it touching; in a way which trans-
muted a sentiment into an embodiment, and made
one seem to see Australasia as a young girl stroking
mother England's old gray head.

In the Australasian home the table-talk is vivacious
and unembarrassed; it is without stiffness or re-
straint. This does not remind one of England so
much as it does of America. But Australasia is
strictly democratic, and reserves and restraints are
things that are bred by differences of rank.

English and colonial audiences are phenomenally
alert and responsive. Where masses of people are
gathered together in England, caste is submerged,
and with it the English reserve; equality exists for
the moment, and every individual is free; so free
from any consciousness of fetters, indeed, that the
Englishman's habit of watching himself and guard-
ing himself against any injudicious exposure of his
feelings is forgotten, and falls into abeyance — and
to such a degree, indeed, that he will bravely applaud
all by himself if he wants to — an exhibition of daring
which is unusual elsewhere in the world.

But it is hard to move a new English acquaintance
when he is by himself, or when the company present
is small, and new to him. He is on his guard then,
and his natural reserve is to the fore. This has given
him the false reputation of being without humor
and without the appreciation of humor. Americans

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are not Englishmen, and American humor is not
English humor; but both the American and his
humor had their origin in England, and have merely
undergone changes brought about by changed con-
ditions and a new environment. About the best
humorous speeches I have yet heard were a couple
that were made in Australia at club suppers — one of
them by an Englishman, the other by an Australian.

113

CHAPTER XII

There are those who scoff at the school-boy, calling him frivolous and shallow.
Yet it was the school-boy who said, "Faith is believing what you know ain't so."

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

IN Sydney I had a large dream, and in the course
of talk I told it to a missionary from India who
was on his way to visit some relatives in New Zea-
land. I dreamed that the visible universe is the
physical person of God ; that the vast worlds that we
see twinkling millions of miles apart in the fields of
space are the blood-corpuscles in His veins ; and that
we and the other creatures are the microbes that
charge with multitudinous life the corpuscles.

Mr. X., the missionary, considered the dream
awhile, then said:

It is not surpassable for magnitude, since its metes and bounds
are the metes and bounds of the universe itself; and it seems to
me that it almost accounts for a thing which is otherwise nearly
unaccountable — the origin of the sacred legends of the Hindus.
Perhaps they dream them, and then honestly believe them to
be divine revelations of fact. It looks like that, for the legends
are built on so vast a scale that it does not seem reasonable
that plodding priests would happen upon such colossal fancies
when awake.

He told some of the legends, and said that they
were implicitly believed by all classes of Hindus,
including those of high social position and intel-
ligence; and he said that this universal credulity was

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a great hindrance to the missionary in his work.
Then he said something like this :

At home, people wonder why Christianity does not make faster
progress in India. They hear that the Indians believe easily,
and that they have a natural trust in miracles and give them a
hospitable reception. Then they argue like this: since the
Indian believes easily, place Christianity before them and they
must believe; confirm its truths by the Biblical miracles, and
they will no longer doubt. The natural deduction is, that as
Christianity makes but indifferent progress in India, the fault
is with us: we are not fortunate in presenting the doctrines and
the miracles.

But the truth is, we are not by any means so well equipped
as they think. We have not the easy task that they imagine.
To use a military figure, we are sent against the enemy with
good powder in our guns, but only wads for bullets; that is to
say, our miracles are not effective; the Hindus do not care for
them; they have more extraordinary ones of their own. All
the details of their own religion are proven and established by
miracles; the details of ours must be proven in the same way.
When I first began my work in India I greatly underestimated
the difficulties thus put upon my task. A correction was not
long in coming. I thought as our friends think at home — that
to prepare my childlike wonder-lovers to listen with favor to my
grave message I only needed to charm the way to it with wonders,
marvels, miracles. With full confidence I told the wonders
performed by Samson, the strongest man that had ever lived —
for so I called him.

At first I saw lively anticipation and strong interest in the
faces of my people, but as I moved along from incident to incident
of the great story, I was distressed to see that I was steadily
losing the sympathy of my audience. I could not understand
it. It was a surprise to me, and a disappointment. Before I
was through, the fading sympathy had paled to indifference.
Thence to the end the indifference remained; I was not able to
make any impression upon it.

A good old Hindu gentleman told me where my trouble lay.
He said : " We Hindus recognize a god by the work of his hands —
we accept no other testimony. Apparently, this is also the rule

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MARK TWAIN

with you Christians. And we know when a man has his power
from a god by the fact that he does things which he could not
do, as a man, with the mere powers of a man. Plainly, this is
the Christian's way also, of knowing when a man is working
by a god's power and not by his own. You saw that there was
a supernatural property in the hair of Samson; for you per-
ceived that when his hair was gone he was as other men. It
is our way, as I have said. There are many nations in the world,
and each group of nations has its own gods, and will pay no wor-
ship to the gods of the others. Each group believes its own
gods to be strongest, and it will not exchange them except for
gods that shall be proven to be their superiors in power. Man
is but a weak creature, and needs the help of gods — he cannot do
without it. Shall he place his fate in the hands of weak gods
when there may be stronger ones to be found? That would
be foolish. No, if he hear of gods that are stronger than his
own, he should not turn a deaf ear, for it is not a light matter
that is at stake. How then shall he determine which gods are
the stronger, his own or those that preside over the concerns of
other nations? By comparing the known works of his own
gods with the works of those others; there is no other way.
Now, when we make this comparison, we are not drawn toward
the gods of any other nation. Our gods are shown by their
works to be the strongest, the most powerful. The Christians
have but few gods, and they are new — new, and not strong, as
it seems to us. They will increase in number, it is true, for this
has happened with all gods, but that time is far away, many
ages and decades of ages away, for gods multiply slowly, as is
meet for beings to whom a thousand years is but a single moment.
Our own gods have been born millions of years apart. The
process is slow, the gathering of strength and power is similarly
slow. In the slow lapse of the ages the steadily accumulating
power of our gods has at last become prodigious. We have a
thousand proofs of this in the colossal character of their personal
acts and the acts of ordinary men to whom they have given
supernatural qualities. To your Samson was given supernatural
power, and when he broke the withes, and slew the thousands
with the jawbone of an ass, and carried away the gates of the
city upon his shoulders, you were amazed — and also awed, for
you recognized the divine source of his strength. But it could
not profit to place these things before your Hindu congregation

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and invite their wonder; for they would compare them with the
deed done by Hanuman, when our gods infused their divine
strength into his muscles; and they would be indifferent to them
— as you saw. In the old, old times, ages and ages gone by, when
our god Rama was warring with the demon god of Ceylon,
Rama bethought him to bridge the sea and connect Ceylon with
India, so that his armies might pass easily over; and he sent
his general, Hanuman, inspired like your own Samson with divine
strength, to bring the materials for the bridge. In two days
Hanuman strode fifteen hundred miles, to the Himalayas, and
took upon his shoulder a range of those lofty mountains two
hundred miles long, and started with it toward Ceylon. It was
in the night; and, as he passed along the plain, the people of
Govardhun heard the thunder of his tread and felt the earth
rocking under it, and they ran out, and there, with their snowy
summits piled to heaven, they saw the Himalayas passing by.
And as this huge continent swept along overshadowing the earth,
upon its slopes they discerned the twinkling lights of a thousand
sleeping villages, and it was as if the constellations were filing
in procession through the sky. While they were looking, Hanu-
man stumbled, and a small ridge of red sandstone twenty miles
long was jolted loose and fell. Half of its length has wasted
away in the course of the ages, but the other ten miles of it
remain in the plain by Govardhun to this day as proof of the
might of the inspiration of our gods. You must know, yourself,
that Hanuman could not have carried those mountains to
Ceylon except by the strength of the gods. You know that it
was not done by his own strength, therefore you know that it
was done by the strength of the gods, just as you know that
Samson carried the gates by the divine strength and not by his
own. I think you must concede two things: First, That in
carrying the gates of the city upon his shoulders, Samson did
not establish the superiority of his gods over ours; secondly,
That his feat is not supported by any but verbal evidence, while
Hanuman's is not only supported by verbal evidence, but this
evidence is confirmed, established, proven, by visible, tangible
evidence, which is the strongest of all testimony. We have the
sandstone ridge, and while it remains we cannot doubt, and
shall not. Have you the gates?'/ ""

117

CHAPTER XIII

The timid man yearns for full value and demands a tenth. The bold man
strikes for double value and compromises on par.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

ONE is sure to be struck by the liberal way in
which Australasia spends money upon public
works — such as legislative buildings, town -halls,
hospitals, asylums, parks, and botanical gardens. I
should say that where minor towns in America spend
a hundred dollars on the town-hall and on public
parks and gardens the like towns in Australasia
spend a thousand. And I think that this ratio will
hold good in the matter of hospitals, also. I have
seen a costly and well-equipped and architecturally
handsome hospital in an Australian village of fifteen
hundred inhabitants. It was built by private funds
furnished by the villagers and the neighboring plant-
ers, and its running expenses were drawn from the
same sources. I suppose it would be hard to match
this in any country. This village was about to close
a contract for lighting the streets with the electric
light, when I was there. That is ahead of London.
London is still obscured by gas — gas pretty widely
scattered, too, in some of the districts; so widely
indeed, that except on moonlight nights it is difficult
to find the gas-lamps.

The botanical garden of Sydney covers thirty-

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eight acres, beautifully laid out and rich with the
spoil of all the lands and all the climes of the world.
The garden is on high ground in the middle of the
town, overlooking the great harbor, and it adjoins
the spacious grounds of Government House — fifty-
six acres; and at hand, also, is a recreation-ground
containing eighty-two acres. In addition, there are
the zoological gardens, the race-course, and the great
cricket-grounds where the international matches are
played. Therefore there is plenty of room for repose-
ful lazying and lounging, and for exercise too, for
such as like that kind of work.

There are four specialties attainable in the way of
social pleasure. If you enter your name on the
Visitors' Book at Government House you will re-
ceive an invitation to the next ball that takes place
there, if nothing can be proven against you. And
it will be very pleasant ; for you will see everybody
except the Governor, and add a number of acquaint-
ances and several friends to your list. The Governor
will be in England. He always is. The continent
has four or five governors, and I do not know how
many it takes to govern the outlying archipelago;
but anyway you will not see them. When they are
appointed they come out from England and get
inaugurated, and give a ball, and help pray for rain,
and get aboard ship and go back home. And so
the Lieutenant-Governor has to do all the work. I
was in Australasia three months and a half, and saw
only one Governor. The others were at home.

The Australasian Governor would not be so rest-
less, perhaps, if he had a war, or a veto, or some-

IIQ

MARK TWAIN

thing like that to call for his reserve energies, but he
hasn't. There isn't any war, and there isn't any
veto in his hands. And so there is really little or
nothing doing in his line. The country governs
itself, and prefers to do it ; and is so strenuous about
it and so jealous of its independence that it grows
restive if even the Imperial Government at home
proposes to help; and so the Imperial veto, while a
fact, is yet mainly a name.

Thus the Governor's functions are much more
limited than are a Governor's functions with us.
And therefore more fatiguing. He is the apparent
head of the State, he is the real head of Society.
He represents culture, refinement, elevated senti-
ment, polite life, religion; and by his example he
propagates these, and they spread and flourish and
bear fruit. He creates the fashion, and leads it.
His ball is the ball of balls, and his countenance
makes the horse-race thrive.

He is usually a lord, and this is well; for his posi-
tion compels him to lead an expensive life, and an
English lord is generally well equipped for that.

Another of Sydney's social pleasures is the visit to
the Admiralty House; which is nobly situated on
high ground overlooking the water. The trim boats
of the service convey the guests thither; and there,
or on board the flagship, they have the duplicate
of the hospitalities of Government House. The
Admiral commanding a station in British waters is a
magnate of the first degree, and he is sumptuously
housed, as becomes the dignity of his office.

Third in the list of special pleasures is the tour of

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the harbor in a fine steam pleasure launch. Your
richer friends own boats of this kind, and they will
invite you, and the joys of the trip will make a long
day seem short.

And finally comes the shark-fishing. Sydney har-
bor is populous with the finest breeds of man-eating
sharks in the world. Some people make their living
catching them; for the Government pays a cash
bounty on them. The larger the shark the larger
the bounty, and some of the sharks are twenty feet
long. You not only get the bounty, but everything
that is in the shark belongs to you. Sometimes the
contents are quite valuable.

The shark is the swiftest fish that swims. The
speed of the fastest steamer afloat is poor compared
to his. And he is a great gad-about, and roams far
and wide in the oceans, and visits the shores of all of
them, ultimately, in the course of his restless excur-
sions. I have a tale to tell now, which has not as
yet been in print. In 1870 a young stranger arrived
in Sydney, and set about finding something to do;
but he knew no one, and brought no recommenda-
tions, and the result was that he got no employment.
He had aimed high, at first, but as time and his
money wasted away he grew less and less exacting,
until at last he was willing to serve in the humblest
capacities if so he might get bread and shelter. But
luck was still against him ; he could find no opening
of any sort. Finally his money was all gone. He
' walked the streets all day, thinking ; he walked them
all night, thinking, thinking, and growing hungrier
and hungrier. At dawn he found himself well away

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MARK TWAIN

from the town and drifting aimlessly along the harbor
shore. As he was passing by a nodding shark-fisher
the man looked up and said:

"Say, young fellow, take my line a spell, and
change my luck for me."

"How do you know I won't make it worse?"

"Because you can't. It has been at its worst all
night. If you can't change it, no harm's done; if you
do change it, it's for the better, of course. Come."

"All right, what will you give?"

"I'll give you the shark, if you catch one."

"And I will eat it, bones and all. Give me the
line."

"Here you are. I will get away, now, for a while,
so that my luck won't spoil yours; for many and
many a time I've noticed that if — there, pull in, pull
in, man, you've got a bite! I knew how it would
be. Why, I knew you for a born son of luck the
minute I saw you. All right — he's landed."

It was an unusually large shark — "a full nineteen-
footer," the fisherman said, as he laid the creature
open with his knife.

"Now you rob him, young man, while I step to
my hamper for a fresh bait. There's generally
something in them worth going for. You've changed
my luck, you see. But, my goodness, I hope you
haven't changed your own."

"Oh, it wouldn't matter; don't worry about that.
Get your bait. I'll rob him."

When the fisherman got back the young man had
just finished washing his hands in the bay and was
starting away.

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"What! you are not going?"

"Yes. Good-by."

"But what about your shark?"

"The shark? Why, what use is he to me?"

"What use is he? I like that. Don't you know
that we can go and report him to Government, and
you'll get a clean solid eighty shillings bounty ? Hard
cash, you know. What do you think about it now?"

"Oh, well, you can collect it."

"And keep it? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, this is odd. You're one of those sort
they call eccentrics, I judge. The saying is, you
mustn't judge a man by his clothes, and I'm believ-
ing it now. Why yours are looking just ratty, don't
you know; and yet you must be rich."

"lam."

The young man walked slowly back to the town,
deeply musing as he went. He halted a moment in
front of the best restaurant, then glanced at his
clothes and passed on, and got his breakfast at a
"stand-up." There was a good deal of it, and it
cost five shillings. He tendered a sovereign, got
his change, glanced at his silver, muttered to him-
self, "There isn't enough to buy clothes with," and
Went his way.

At half past nine the richest wool-broker in Sydney
was sitting in his morning-room at home, settling
his breakfast with the morning paper. A servant
put his head in and said :

"There's a sundowner at the door wants to see
you, sir."

Vol. 15 ° B_M. T.

MARK TWAIN

"What do you bring that kind of a message here
for? Send him about his business."

"He won't go, sir. I've tried."

"He won't go? That's — why, that's unusual.
He's one of two things, then: he's a remarkable
person, or he's crazy. Is he crazy?"

"No, sir. He don't look it."

"Then he's remarkable. What does he say he
wants?"

"He won't tell, sir; only says it's very important."

"And won't go. Does he say he won't go?"

"Says he'll stand there till he sees you, sir, if it's
all day."

"And yet isn't crazy. Show him up."

The sundowner was shown in. The broker said
to himself, "No, he's not crazy; that is easy to
see; so he must be the other thing."

Then aloud, "Well, my good fellow, be quick about
it; don't waste any words; what is it you want?"

"I want to borrow a hundred thousand pounds."

"Scott! (It's a mistake; he is crazy. . . . No —
he can't be — not with that eye.) Why, you take
my breath away. Come, who are you?"

"Nobody that you know."

"What is your name?"

"Cecil Rhodes."

"No, I don't remember hearing the name before.
Now then — just for curiosity's sake — what has sent
you to me on this extraordinary errand?"

"The intention to make a hundred thousand
pounds for you and as much for myself within the
next sixty days."

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"Well, well, well. It is the most extraordinary
idea that I — sit down — you interest me. And some-
how you — well, you fascinate me, I think that that
is about the word. And it isn't your proposition —
no, that doesn't fascinate me; it's something else,
I don't quite know what; something that's born
in you and oozes out of you, I suppose. Now then
— just for curiosity's sake again, nothing more: as
I understand it, it is your desire to bor — "

"I said intention.''1

"Pardon, so you did. I thought it was an unheed-
ful use of the word — an unheedful valuing of its
strength, you know."

"I knew its strength."

"Well, I must say — but look here, let me walk
the floor a little, my mind is getting into a sort of
whirl, though you don't seem disturbed any. (Plainly
this young fellow isn't crazy; but as to his being
remarkable — well, really he amounts to that, and
something over.) Now then, I believe I am beyond
the reach of further astonishment. Strike, and
spare not. What is your scheme?"

"To buy the wool crop — deliverable in sixty
days."

"What, the whole of it?"

"The whole of it."

"No, I was not quite out of the reach of surprises,
after all. Why, how you talk. Do you know what
our crop is going to foot up?"

"Two and a half million sterling — maybe a little
more."

"Well, you've got your statistics right, anyway.

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MARK TWAIN

Now then, do you know what the margins would
foot up, to buy it at sixty days?"

"The hundred thousand pounds I came here to
get."

"Right, once more. Well, dear me, just to see
what would happen, I wish you had the money.
And if you had it, what would you do with it?"

"I shall make two hundred thousand pounds out
of it in sixty days."

"You mean, of course, that you might make it if — "

"I said, 'shall.'"

"Yes, by George, you did say 'shall'! You are
the most definite devil I ever saw, in the matter of
language. Dear, dear, dear, look here! Definite
speech means clarity of mind. Upon my word I
believe you've got what you believe to be a rational
reason for venturing into this house, an entire
stranger, on this wild scheme of buying the wool
crop of an entire colony on speculation. Bring it
out — I am prepared — acclimatized, if I may use
the word. Why would you buy the crop, and why
would you make that sum out of it ? That is to say,
what makes you think you — "

"I don't think— I know."

"Definite again. How do you know?"

"Because France has declared war against Ger-
many, and wool has gone up fourteen per cent, in
London and is still rising."

"Oh, in-deed? Now then, I've got you! Such a
thunderbolt as you have just let fly ought to have
made me jump out of my chair, but it didn't stir me
the least little bit, you see. And for a very simple

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reason: I have read the morning paper. You can
look at it if you want to. The fastest ship in the
service arrived at eleven o'clock last night, fifty days
out from London. All her news is printed here.
There are no war-clouds anywhere; and as for
wool, why, it is the low-spiritedest commodity in
the English market. It is your turn to jump,
now. . . . Well, why don't you jump? Why do
you sit there in that placid fashion, when — "

"Because I have later news."

"Later news? Oh, come — later news than fifty
days, brought steaming hot from London by
the—"

"My news is only ten days old."

"Oh, Mvin-chausen, hear the maniac talk! Where
did you get it?"

"Got it out of a shark."

"Oh, oh, oh, this is too much! Front! call the
police — bring the gun — raise the town! All the
asylums in Christendom have broken loose in the
single person of — "

"Sit down! And collect yourself. Where is the
use in getting excited? Am I excited? There is
nothing to get excited about. When I make a state-
ment which I cannot prove, it will be time enough
for you to begin to offer hospitality to damaging
fancies about me and my sanity."

"Oh, a thousand thousand pardons! I ought to
be ashamed of myself, and I am ashamed of myself
for thinking that a little bit of a circumstance like
sending a shark to England to fetch back a market
report — "

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MARK TWAIN

"What does your middle initial stand for, sir?"

"Andrew. What are you writing?"

"Wait a moment. Proof about the shark — and
another matter. Only ten lines. There — now it is
done. Sign it."

''Many thanks — many. Let me see; it says —
it says — oh, come, this is interesting! Why — why
- — look here! prove what you say here, and I'll put
up the money, and double as much, if necessary, and
divide the winnings with you, half and half. There,
now — I've signed; make your promise good if you
can. Show me a copy of the London Times only
ten days old."

"Here it is — and with it these buttons and a mem-
orandum-book that belonged to the man the shark
swallowed. Swallowed him in the Thames, without
a doubt; for you will notice that the last entry in
the book is dated 'London,' and is of the same date
as the Times, and says ' $>er confequen# ber Ertege3erf(d*
rung, reife tdj t)eute na$ 2)eutfd)tant> ab, auf fcafj id) mem
Seben auf tern Slltar metneS £anbe£ legen mag' — as clean
native German as anybody can put upon paper,
and means that in consequence of the declara-
tion of war, this loyal soul is leaving for home
to-day, to fight. And he did leave, too, but the
shark had him before the day was done, poor fel-
low."

"And a pity, too. But there are times for mourn-
ing, and we will attend to this case further on; other
matters are pressing, now. I will go down and set
the machinery in motion in a quiet way and buy the
crop. It will cheer the drooping spirits of the boys,

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

in a transitory way. Everything is transitory in this
world. Sixty days hence, when they are called to
deliver the goods, they will think they've been struck
by lightning. But there is a time for mourning, and
we will attend to that case along with the other one.
Come along, I'll take you to my tailor. What did
you say your name is?"

"Cecil Rhodes."

"It is hard to remember. However, I think you
will make it easier by and by, if you live. There
are three kinds of people — Commonplace Men,
Remarkable Men, and Lunatics. I'll classify you
with the Remarkables, and take the chances."

The deal went through, and secured to the young
stranger the first fortune he ever pocketed.

The people of Sydney ought to be afraid of the
sharks, but for some reason they do not seem to
be. On Saturdays the young men go out in their
boats, and sometimes the water is fairly covered with
the little sails. A boat upsets now and then, by
accident, a result of tumultuous skylarking; some-
times the boys upset their boat for fun — such as it
is — with sharks visibly waiting around for just such
an occurrence. The young fellows scramble aboard t
whole — sometimes — not always. Tragedies have
happened more than once. While I was in Sydney
it was reported that a boy fell out of a boat in the
mouth of the Paramatta River and screamed for help
and a boy jumped overboard from another boat to
save him from the assembling sharks ; but the sharks
made swift work with the lives of both.

The government pays a bounty for the shark; to

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MARK TWAIN

get the bounty the fishermen bait the hook or the
seine with agreeable mutton; the news spreads and
the sharks come from all over the Pacific Ocean to
get the free board. In time the shark culture will be
one of the most successful things in the colony*

130

CHAPTER XIV

We can secure other people's approval, if we do right and try hard; but our own
is worth a hundred of it, and no way has been found out of securing that.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

MY health had broken down in New York in
. May; it had remained in a doubtful but fairish
condition during a succeeding period of eighty-two
days; it broke again on the Pacific. It broke again
in Sydney, but not until after I had had a good out-
ing, and had also filled my lecture engagements.
This latest break lost me the chance of seeing
Queensland. In the circumstances, to go north
toward hotter weather was not advisable.

So we moved south with a westward slant, seven-
teen hours by rail to the capital of the colony of Vic-
toria, Melbourne — that juvenile city of sixty years,
and half a million inhabitants. On the map the
distance looked small ; but that is a trouble with all
divisions of distance in such a vast country as Aus-
tralia. The colony of Victoria itself looks small on
the map — looks like a county, in fact — yet it is about
as large as England, Scotland, and Wales combined.
Or, to get another focus upon it, it is just eighty
times as large as the state of Rhode Island, and one
third as large as the state of Texas.

Outside of Melbourne, Victoria seems to be owned
by a handful of squatters, each with a Rhode Island

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MARK TWAIN

for a sheep-farm. That is the impression which one
gathers from common talk, yet the wool industry of
Victoria is by no means so great as that of New
South Wales. The climate of Victoria is favorable
to other great industries — among others, wheat-
growing and the making of wine.

We took the train at Sydney at about four in the
afternoon. It was American in one way, for we had
a most rational sleeping-car; also the car was clean
andnfine and new — nothing about it to suggest the
rolling-stock of the continent of Europe. But our
baggage was weighed, and extra weight charged for.
That was continental. Continental and troublesome.
Any detail of railroading that is not troublesome can-
not honorably be described as continental.

The tickets were round-trip ones — to Melbourne,
and clear to Adelaide in South Australia, and then
all the way back to Sydney. Twelve hundred more
miles than we really expected to make; but then as
the round trip wouldn't cost much more than the
single trip, it seemed well enough to buy as many
miles as one could afford, even if one was not likely
to need them. A human being has a natural desire
to have more of a good thing than he needs.

Now comes a singular thing: the oddest thing,
the strangest thing, the most baffling and unaccount-
able marvel that Australasia can show. At the
frontier between New South Wales and Victoria our
multitude of passengers were routed out of their
snug beds by lantern-light in the morning in the
biting cold of a high altitude to change cars on a
road that has no break in it from Sydney to Mel-

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bourne! Think of the paralysis of intellect that
gave that idea birth; imagine the boulder it emerged
from on some petrified legislator's shoulders.

It is a narrow-gage road to the frontier, and a
broader gage thence to Melbourne. The two gov-
ernments were the builders of the road and are the
owners of it. One or two reasons are given for this
curious state of things. One is, that it represents
the jealousy existing between the colonies — the two
most important colonies of Australasia. What the
other one is, I have forgotten. But it is of no con-
sequence. It could be but another effort to explain
the inexplicable.

All passengers fret at the double-gage; all ship-
pers of freight must of course fret at it ; unnecessary
expense, delay, and annoyance are imposed upon
everybody concerned, and no one is benefited.

Each Australian colony fences itself off from its
neighbor with a custom-house. Personally, I have
no objection, but it must be a good deal of incon-
venience to the people. We have something resem-
bling it here and there in America, but it goes by
another name. The large empire of the Pacific coast
requires a world of iron machinery, and could manu-
facture it economically on the spot if the imposts
on foreign iron were removed. But they are not.
Protection to Pennsylvania and Alabama forbids it,
The result to the Pacific coast is the same as if there
were several rows of custom-fences between the
coast and the East. Iron carted across the American
continent at luxurious railway rates would be valu-
able enough to be coined when it arrived.

i33

MARK TWAIN

We changed cars. This was at Albury. And it
was there, I think, that the growing day and the
early sun exposed the distant range called the Blue
Mountains. Accurately named. "My word!" as
the Australians say, but it was a stunning color, that
blue. Deep, strong, rich, exquisite; towering and
majestic masses of blue — a softly luminous blue, a
smoldering blue, as if vaguely lit by fires within.
It extinguished the blue of the sky — made it pallid
and unwholesome, whitey and washed out. A won-
derful color — just divine.

A resident told me that those were not mountains;
he said they were rabbit-piles. And explained that
long exposure and the over-ripe condition of the
rabbits was what made them look so blue. This
man may have been right, but much reading of
books of travel has made me distrustful of gratis
information furnished by unofficial residents of a
country. The facts which such people give to
travelers are usually erroneous, and often intemper-
ately so. The rabbit-plague has indeed been very
bad in Australia, and it could account for one moun-
tain, but not for a mountain range, it seems to me.
It is too large an order.

We breakfasted at the station. A good breakfast,
except the coffee; and cheap. The government
establishes the prices and placards them. The
waiters were men, I think; but that is not usual in
Australasia. The usual thing is to have girls. No,
not girls, young ladies — generally duchesses. Dress?
They would attract attention at any royal levee in
Europe. Even empresses and queens do not dress

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

as they do. Not that they could not afford it, per-
haps, but they would not know how.
- All the pleasant morning we slid smoothly along
over the plains, through thin — not thick — forests
of great melancholy gum trees, with trunks rugged
with curled sheets of flaking bark — erysipelas con-
valescents, so to speak, shedding their dead skins.
And all along were tiny cabins, built sometimes of
wood, sometimes of gray-blue corrugated iron; and
the doorsteps and fences were clogged with children
— rugged little simply clad chaps that looked as if
they had been imported from the banks of the
Mississippi without breaking bulk.

And there were little villages, with neat stations
well placarded with showy advertisements — mainly
of almost too self-righteous brands of "sheep-dip,"
if that is the name — and I think it is. It is a stuff
like tar, and is dabbed onto places where the shearer
clips a piece out of the sheep. It bars out the flies,
and has healing properties, and a nip to it which
makes the sheep skip like the cattle on a thousand
hills. It is not good to eat. That is, it is not
good to eat except when mixed with railroad coffee.
It improves railroad coffee. Without it railroad
coffee is too vague. But with it, it is quite assertive
and enthusiastic. By itself, railroad coffee is too
passive; but sheep-dip makes it wake up and get
down to business. I wonder where they get railroad
coffee?

We saw birds, but not a kangaroo, not an emu,
not an ornithorhyncus, not a lecturer, not a native.
Indeed, the land seemed quite destitute of game.

i35

MARK TWAIN

But I have misused the word native. In Australia
it is applied to Australian-born whites only. I
should have said that we saw no Aboriginals — no
"blackfellows." And to this day I have never seen
one. In the great museums you will find all the
other curiosities, but in the curio of chiefest interest
to the stranger all of them are lacking. We have
at home an abundance of museums, and not an
American Indian in them. It is clearly an absurdity;
but it never struck me before.

136

CHAPTER XV

Truth is stranger than fiction — to some people, but I am measurably familiar
with it. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's Xew Calendar.

Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to
possibilities; Truth isn't. — Pudd'nliead TVilson's New Calendar.

THE air was balmy and delicious, the sunshine
radiant; it was a charming excursion. In the
course of it we came to a town whose odd name was
famous all over the world a quarter of a century ago
— Wagga-Wagga. This was because the Tichborne
Claimant had kept a butcher-shop there. It was
out of the midst of his humble collection of sausages
and tripe that he soared up into the zenith of noto-
riety and hung there in the wastes of space a time,
with the telescopes of all nations leveled at him in
unappeasable curiosity — curiosity as to which of the
two long-missing persons he was : Arthur Orton, the
mislaid roustabout of Wapping, or Sir Roger Tich-
borne, the lost heir of a name and estates as old as
English history. We all know now, but not a dozen
people knew then; and the dozen kept the mystery
to themselves and allowed the most intricate and
fascinating and marvelous real-life romance that has
ever been played upon the world's stage to unfold
itself serenely, act by act, in a British court, by the
long and laborious processes of judicial development.
When we recall the details of that great romance

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MARK TWAIN

we marvel to see what daring chances truth may
freely take in constructing a tale, as compared with
the poor little conservative risks permitted to fiction.
The fiction-artist could achieve no success with the
materials of this splendid Tichborne romance. He
would have to drop out the chief characters; the
public would say such people are impossible. He
would have to drop out a number of the most pic-
turesque incidents ; the public would say such things
could never happen. And yet the chief characters
did exist, and the incidents did happen.

It cost the Tichborne estates four hundred
thousand dollars to unmask the Claimant and drive
him out ; and even after the exposure multitudes of
Englishmen still believed in him. It cost the
British Government another four hundred thousand
dollars to convict him of perjury; and after the
conviction the same old multitudes still believed in
him ; and among these believers were many educated
and intelligent men; and some of them had person-
ally known the real Sir Roger. The Claimant was
sentenced to fourteen years' imprisonment. When
he got out of prison he went to New York and kept
a whisky saloon in the Bowery for a time, then dis-
appeared from view.

He always claimed to be Sir Roger Tichborne
until death called for him. This was but a few
months ago — not very much short of a generation
since he left Wagga-Wagga to go and possess himself
of his estates. On his deathbed he yielded up his
secret, and confessed in writing that he was only
Arthur Orton, of Wapping, able seaman and butcher

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

— that and nothing more. But it is scarcely to be
doubted that there are people whom even his dying
confession will not convince. The old habit of
assimilating incredibilities must have made strong
food a necessity in their case ; a weaker article would
probably disagree with them.

I was in London when the Claimant stood his trial
for perjury. I attended one of his showy evenings
in the sumptuous quarters provided for him from
the purses of his adherents and well-wishers. He
was in evening dress, and I thought him a rather
fine and stately creature. There were about twenty-
five gentlemen present; educated men, men moving
in good society, none of them commonplace; some
of them were men of distinction, none of them were
obscurities. They were his cordial friends and
admirers. It was "S'r Roger," always "S'r Roger,"
on all hands ; no one withheld the title, all turned it
from the tongue with unction, and as if it tasted good.

For many years I had had a mystery in stock.
Melbourne, and only Melbourne, could unriddle it
for me. In 1873 I arrived in London with my wife
and young child, and presently received a note from
Naples signed by a name not familiar to me. It
was not Bascom, and it was not Henry; but I will
call it Henry Bascom for convenience' sake. This
note, of about six lines, was written on a strip of
white paper whose end-edges were ragged. I came
to be familiar with those strips in later years. Their
size and pattern were always the same. Their con-
tents were usually to the same effect: would I and
mine come to the writer's country-place in England

i39

MARK TWAIN

on such and such a date, by such and such a train,
and stay twelve days and depart by such and such a
train at the end of the specified time? A carriage
would meet us at the station.

These invitations were always for a long time
ahead; if we were in Europe, three months ahead;
if we were in America, six to twelve months ahead.
They always named the exact date and train for the
beginning and also for the end of the visit.

This first note invited us for a date three months
in the future. It asked us to arrive by the 4.10 p.m.
train from London, August 6th. The carriage would
be waiting. The carriage would take us away seven
days later — train specified. And there were these
words: "Speak to Tom Hughes."

I showed the note to the author of Tom Brown at
Rugby, and he said:

"Accept, and be thankful."

He described Mr. Bascom as being a man of
genius, a man of fine attainments, a choice man in
every way, a rare and beautiful character. He said
that Bascom Hall was a particularly fine example of
the stately manorial mansion of Elizabeth's days,
and that it was a house worth going a long way to
see — like Knowle; that Mr. B. was of a social dis-
position, liked the company of agreeable people,
and always had samples of the sort coming and
going.

We paid the visit. We paid others, in later years
— the last one in 1879. Soon after that Mr. Bascom
started on a voyage around the world in a steam-
yacht — a long and leisurely trip, for he was making

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

collections, in all lands, of birds, butterflies, and
such things.

The day that President Garfield was shot by the
assassin Guiteau, we were at a little watering-place
on Long Island Sound; and in the mail-matter of
that day came a letter with the Melbourne postmark
on it. It was for my wife, but I recognized Mr.
Bascom's handwriting on the envelope, and opened
it. It was the usual note — as to paucity of lines —
and was written on the customary strip of paper;
but there was nothing usual about the contents.
The note informed my wife that if it would be any
assuagement of her grief to know that her husband's
lecture-tour in Australia was a satisfactory venture
from the beginning to the end, he, the writer, could
testify that such was the case; also, that her hus-
band's untimely death had been mourned by all
classes, as she would already know by the press
telegrams, long before the reception of this note;
that the funeral was attended by the officials of the
colonial and city governments; and that while he,
the writer, her friend and mine, had not reached
Melbourne in time to see the body, he had at least
had the sad privilege of acting as one of the pall-
bearers. Signed, "Henry Bascom."

My first thought was, why didn't he have the
coffin opened? He would have seen that the corpse
was an impostor, and he could have gone right
ahead and dried up the most of those tears, and com-
forted those sorrowing governments, and sold the
remains and sent me the money.

I did nothing about the matter. I had set the

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MARK TWAIN

law after living lecture-doubles of mine a couple of
times in America, and the law had not been able to
catch them; others in my trade had tried to catch
their impostor-doubles and had failed. Then where
was the use in harrying a ghost? None — and so I
did not disturb it. I had a curiosity to know about
that man's lecture-tour and last moments, but that
could wait. When I should see Mr. Bascom he
would tell me all about it. But he passed from life,
and I never saw him again. My curiosity faded away.

However, when I found that I was going to Aus-
tralia it revived. And naturally: for if the people
should say that I was a dull, poor thing compared
to what I was before I died, it would have a bad
effect on business. Well, to my surprise the Sydney
journalists had never heard of that impostor! I
pressed them, but they were firm — they had never
heard of him, and didn't believe in him.

I could not understand it ; still, I thought it would
all come right in Melbourne. The government
would remember; and the other mourners. At the
supper of the Institute of Journalists I should find
out all about the matter. But no — it turned out
that they had never heard of it.

So my mystery was a mystery still. It was a
great disappointment. I believed it would never be
cleared up — in this life — so I dropped it out of my
mind.

But at last! just when I was least expecting it —

However, this is not the place for the rest of it ; I
shall come to the matter again, in a far-distant
chapter.

142

CHAPTER XVI

There is a Moral Sense, and there is an'Immoral Sense. History shows us that
the Moral Sense enables us to perceive morality and how to avoid it, and that the
Immoral Sense enables us to perceive immorality and how to enjoy it.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

MELBOURNE spreads around over an immense
i, area of ground. It is a stately city architec-
turally as well as in magnitude. It has an elaborate
system of cable-car service; it has museums, and
colleges, and schools, and public gardens, and elec-
tricity, and gas, and libraries, and theaters, and
mining centers, and wool centers, and centers of the
arts and sciences, and boards of trade, and ships,
and railroads, and a harbor, and social clubs, and
journalistic clubs, and racing clubs, and a squatter
club sumptuously housed and appointed, and as
many churches and banks as can make a living. In
a word, it is equipped with everything that goes to
make the modern great city. It is the largest city
of Australasia, and fills the post with honor and
credit. It has one specialty; this must not be
jumbled in with those other things. It is the mitered
Metropolitan of the Horse-Racing Cult. Its race-
ground is the Mecca of Australasia. On the great
annual day of sacrifice — the 5th of November, Guy
Fawkes's Day — business is suspended over a stretch
of land and sea as wide as from New York to San

143

MARK TWAIN

Francisco, and deeper than from the northern lakes
to the Gulf of Mexico; and every man and woman,
of high degree or low, who can afford the expense,
put away their other duties and come. They begin
to swarm in by ship and rail a fortnight before the
day, and they swarm thicker and thicker day after
day, until all the vehicles of transportation are taxed
to their uttermost to meet the demands of the occa-
sion, and all hotels and lodgings are bulging outward
because of the pressure from within. They come a
hundred thousand strong, as all the best authorities
say, and they pack the spacious grounds and grand-
stands and make a spectacle such as is never to be
seen in Australasia elsewhere.

It is the "Melbourne Cup" that brings this multi-
tude together. Their clothes have been ordered
long ago, at unlimited cost, and without bounds as
to beauty and magnificence, and have been kept in
concealment until now, for unto this day are they
consecrate. I am speaking of the ladies' clothes;
but one might know that.

And so the grand-stands make a brilliant and
wonderful spectacle, a delirium of color, a vision of
beauty. The champagne flows, everybody is viva-
cious, excited, happy; everybody bets, and gloves
and fortunes change hands right along, all the time.
Day after day the races go on, and the fun and the
excitement are kept at white heat; and when each
day is done, the people dance all night so as to be
fresh for the race in the morning. And at the end
of the great week the swarms secure lodgings and
transportation for next year, then flock away to

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

Uieir remote homes and count their gains and losses,
and order next year's Cup clothes, and then lie
down and sleep two weeks, and get up sorry to
reflect that a whole year must be put in somehow
or other before they can be wholly happy again.

The Melbourne Cup is the Australasian National
Day. It would be difficult to overstate its impor-
tance. It overshadows all other holidays and spe-
cialized days of whatever sort in that congeries of
colonies. Overshadows them? I might almost say
it blots them out. Each of them gets attention, but
not everybody's; each of them evokes interest,
but not everybody's; each of them rouses enthusi-
asm, but not everybody's; in each case a part of the
attention, interest, and enthusiasm is a matter of
habit and custom, and another part of it is official
and perfunctory. Cup Day, and Cup Day only,
commands an attention, an interest, and an enthu-
siasm which are universal — and spontaneous, not
perfunctory. Cup Day is supreme — it has no rival.
I can call to mind no specialized annual day, in any
country, which can be named by that large name —
Supreme. I can call to mind no specialized annual
day, in any country, whose approach fires the whole
land with a conflagration of conversation and prepa-
ration and anticipation and jubilation. No day save
this one; but this one does it.

In America we have no annual supreme day; no
day whose approach makes the whole nation glad.
We have the Fourth of July, and Christmas, and
Thanksgiving. Neither of them can claim the
primacy; neither of them can arouse an enthusiasm

145

MARK TWAIN

which comes near to being universal. Eight grown
Americans out of ten dread the coming of the Fourth,
with its pandemonium and its perils, and they
rejoice when it is gone — if still alive. The approach
of Christmas brings harassment and dread to many-
excellent people. They have to buy a cart-load of
presents, and they never know what to buy to hit
the various tastes; they put in three weeks of hard
and anxious work, and when Christmas morning
comes they are so dissatisfied with the result, and
so disappointed that they want to sit down and cry.
Then they give thanks that Christmas comes but once
a year. The observance of Thanksgiving Day — as
a function — has become general of late years. The
Thankfulness is not so general. This is natural.
Two-thirds of the nation have always had hard luck
and a hard time during the year, and this has a
calming effect upon their enthusiasm.

We have a supreme day — a sweeping and tre-
mendous and tumultuous day, a day which com-
mands an absolute universality of interest and excite-
ment; but it is not annual. It comes but once in
four years; therefore it cannot count as a rival of
the Melbourne Cup.

In Great Britain and Ireland they have two great
days — Christmas and the Queen's birthday. But
they are equally popular; there is no supremacy.

I think it must be conceded that the position of
the Australasian Day is unique, solitary, unfellowed;
and likely to hold that high place a long time.

The things which interest us when we travel are,
first, the people; next, the novelties; and finally

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

the history of the places and countries visited.
Novelties are rare in cities which represent the most
advanced civilization of the modern day. When
one is familiar with such cities in the other parts of
the world he is in effect familiar with the cities of
Australasia. The outside aspects will furnish little
that is new. There will be new names, but the things
which they represent will sometimes be found to
be less new than their names. There may be shades
of difference, but these can easily be too fine for
detection by the incompetent eye of the passing
stranger. In the larrikin he will not be able to
discover a new species, but only an old one met
elsewhere, and variously called loafer, rough, tough,
bummer, or blatherskite, according to his geograph-
ical distribution. The larrikin differs by a shade
from those others, in that he is more sociable toward
the stranger than they, more kindly disposed, more
hospitable, more hearty, more friendly. At least it
seemed so to me, and I had opportunity to observe.
In Sydney, at least. In Melbourne I had to drive
to and from the lecture-theater, but in Sydney I was
able to walk both ways, and did it. Every night,
on my way home at ten, or a quarter past, I found
the larrikin grouped in considerable force at several
of the street-corners, and he always gave me this
pleasant salutation:

"Hello, Mark!"

"Here's to you, old chap!"

"Say — Mark! — is he dead?" — a reference to a
passage in some book of mine, though I did not
detect, at that time, that that was its source. And

147

MARK TWAIN

I didn't detect it afterward in Melbourne, when I
came on the stage for the first time, and the same
question was dropped down upon me from the dizzy-
height of the gallery. It is always difficult to answer
a sudden inquiry like that, when you have come
unprepared and don't know what it means. I will
remark here — if it is not an indecorum — that the
welcome which an American lecturer gets from a
British colonial audience is a thing which will move
him to his deepest deeps, and veil his sight and
break his voice. And from Winnipeg to Africa,
experience will teach him nothing; he will never
learn to expect it, it will catch him as a surprise
each time. The war-cloud hanging black over Eng-
land and America made no trouble for me. I was
a prospective prisoner of war, but at dinners, sup-
pers, on the platform, and elsewhere, there was
never anything to remind me of it. This was hos-
pitality of the right metal, and would have been
prominently lacking in some countries, in the cir-
cumstances.

And speaking of the war-flurry, it seemed to me
to bring to light the unexpected, in a detail or two.
It seemed to relegate the war-talk to the politicians
on both sides of the water; whereas whenever a
prospective war between two nations had been in
the air theretofore, the public had done most of the
talking and the bitterest. The attitude of the news-
papers was new also. I speak of those of Australasia
and India, for I had access to those only. They
treated the subject argumentatively and with dig-
nity, not with spite and anger. That was a new

148

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

spirit, too, and not learned of the French and Ger-
man press, either before Sedan or since. I heard
many public speeches, and they reflected the modera-
tion of the journals. The outlook is that the English-
speaking race will dominate the earth a hundred
years from now, if its sections do not get to fighting
each other. It would be a pity to spoil that prospect
by baffling and retarding wars when arbitration
would settle their differences so much better and also
so much more definitely.

No, as I have suggested, novelties are rare in the
great capitals of modern times. Even the wool
exchange in Melbourne could not be told from the
familiar stock exchange of other countries. Wool-
brokers are just like stock-brokers; they all bounce
from their seats and put up their hands and yell in
unison — no stranger can tell what — and the president
calmly says — "Sold to Smith & Co., threppence
farthing — next!" — when probably nothing of the
kind happened; for how should he know?

In the museums you will find acres of the most
strange and fascinating things ; but all museums are
fascinating, and they do so tire your eyes, and break
your back, and burn out your vitalities with their
consuming interest. You always say you will never
go again, but you do go. The palaces of the rich,
in Melbourne, are much like the palaces of the rich
in America, and the life in them is the same; but
there the resemblance ends. The grounds surround-
ing the American palace are not often large, and not
often beautiful, but in the Melbourne case the
grounds are often ducally spacious, and the climate

149

MARS TWAIN

.;: . ~ .1?

:.:-

CHAPTER XVII

The English are mentioned in the Kbte: Blessed are --; -eei :rr
tier.: .re eir-.r.— 5:.^ - -.:•;; —..;.-.-..- \>_ ;i:-:;;-.

WHEX we consider the immensity of the British
Empire in territory-, population, and trade, it
requires a stem exercise of faith to beKeve in the
figures which represent Australasia's contribution to
the Empire's commercial grandeur. As compared
with the landed estate of the British Empire, the
landed estate dominated by any other Power ertept
one — Russia — is not very impressive for size, My
authorities make the British Empire not much short
c: 2 fcurth larger than :he Russian Emrire Rcughly
rr;r:r:i::if d. if y:v. ~ill all:— y:ur en: ire hard
to represent the British Emrire. yen my then cat
off the fingers 2 trifle above trie middle joint ::
the iriiile rreer. and — ha: is left :: the hand will
represent Russia. The pap ulati cuts raled by Great
Britain and China are ah:.:: the same — .icc.crc.rcc
each. Xo crher ?:~er arrrtaahes these hrares.
Eve:: R:;ssia :s lef: far behind.

::::: no: hi:: cress, and is l:s: frcr: s-'ch: in :ha:

British ceear :f ^::.:::.:::. Ye: the statistics

" ' --.f again and sh:~s ur vem ean-

.::::slv when its share :f the Empire's eammeree
• ^ «■•- ^1 „..,__._ — >«- .. — .-.■ ~ ^_ - - . - .. "■.- _- — *. . _-

MARK TWAIN

England's annual exports and imports is stated at
three billions of dollars,1 and it is claimed that more
than one-tenth of this great aggregate is represented
by Australasia's exports to England and imports from
England.2 In addition to this, Australasia does a
trade with countries other than England, amounting
to $100,000,000 a year, and a domestic intercolonial
trade amounting to $150,000,000.2

In round numbers the 4,000,000 buy and sell
about $600,000,000 worth of goods a year. It is
claimed that about half of this represents commodi-
ties of Australasian production. The products ex-
ported annually by India are worth a trifle over
$500,000, 000. 1 Now, here are some faith-straining
figures :

Indian production (300,000,000 population),
$500,000,000.

Australasian production (4,000,000 population),
$300,000,000.

That is to say, the product of the individual
Indian, annually (for export some whither), is worth
$1.75; that of the individual Australasian (for ex-
port some whither), $75! Or, to put it in another
way, the Indian family of man and wife and three
children sends away an annual result worth $8.75,
while the Australasian family sends away $375 worth.

There are trustworthy statistics furnished by Sir
Richard Temple and others, which show that the
individual Indian's whole annual product, both for
export and home use, is worth in gold only $7.50;
or, $37.50 for the family-aggregate. Ciphered out

1 New South Wales Blue Book. 2 D. M. Xuckie.

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

153

MARK TWAIN

on a like ratio of multiplication, the Australasian
family's aggregate production would be nearly $i,6oo.
Truly, nothing is so astonishing as figures, if they
once get started.

We left Melbourne by rail for Adelaide, the capital
of the vast province of South Australia — a seventeen-
hour excursion. On the train we found several Syd-
ney friends; among them a Judge who was going
out on] circuit, and was going to hold court at
Broken Hill, where the celebrated silver-mine is.
It seemed a curious road to take to get to that region.
Broken Hill is close to the western border of New
South Wales, and Sydney is on the eastern border.
A fairly straight line, seven hundred miles long,
drawn westward from Sydney, would strike Broken
Hill, just as a somewhat shorter one drawn west
from Boston would strike Buffalo. The way the
Judge was traveling would carry him over two thou-
sand miles by rail, he said; southwest from Sydney
down to Melbourne, then northward up to Adelaide,
then a cant back northeastward and over the border
into New South Wales once more — to Broken Hill.
It was like going from Boston southwest to Rich-
mond, Virginia, then northwest up to Erie, Pennsyl-
vania, then a cant back northeast and over the
border — to Buffalo, New York.

But the explanation was simple. Years ago the
fabulously rich silver discovery at Broken Hill burst
suddenly upon an unexpectant world. Its stocks
started at shillings, and went by leaps and bounds
to the most fanciful figures. It was one of those
cases where the cook puts a month's wages into

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

shares, and comes next month and buys your house
at your own price, and moves into it herself; where
the coachman takes a few shares, and next month
sets up a bank; and where the common sailor invests
the price of a spree, and the next month buys out
the steamship company and goes into business on
his own hook. In a word, it was one of those excite-
ments which bring multitudes of people to a common
center with a rush, and whose needs must be sup-
plied, and at once. Adelaide was close by, Sydney
was far away. Adelaide threw a short railway
across the border before Sydney had time to arrange
for a long one; it was not worth while for Sydney
to arrange at all. The whole vast trade-profit of
Broken Hill fell into Adelaide's hands, irrevocably.
New South Wales furnishes law for Broken Hill and
sends her Judges two thousand miles — mainly
through alien countries — to administer it, but Ade-
laide takes the dividends and makes no moan.

We started at four-twenty in the afternoon, and
moved across level plains until night. In the morning
we had a stretch of "scrub" country — the kind of
thing which is so useful to the Australian novelist.
In the scrub the hostile aboriginal lurks, and flits
mysteriously about, slipping out from time to time
to surprise and slaughter the settler; then slipping
back again, and leaving no track that the white man
can follow. In the scrub the novelist's heroine gets
lost, search fails of result; she wanders here and
there, and finally sinks down exhausted and uncon-
scious, and the searchers pass within a yard or two
of her, not suspecting that she is near, and by and

Vol.15 I5S f— M.T.

MARK TWAIN

by some rambler finds her bones and the pathetic
diary which she had scribbled with her failing hand
and left behind. Nobody can find a lost heroine in
the scrub but the aboriginal "tracker," and he will
not lend himself to the scheme if it will interfere
with the novelist's plot. The scrub stretches miles
and miles in all directions, and looks like a level
roof of bush-tops without a break or a crack in it —
as seamless as a blanket, to all appearance. One
might as well walk under water and hope to guess
out a route and stick to it, I should think. Yet it is
claimed that the aboriginal "tracker" was able to
hunt out people lost in the scrub. Also in the
"bush"; also in the desert; and even follow them
over patches of bare rocks and over alluvial ground
which had to all appearance been washed clear of
footprints.

From reading Australian books and talking with
the people, I became convinced that the aboriginal
tracker's performances evince a craft, a penetration,
a luminous sagacity, and a minuteness and accuracy
of observation in the matter of detective work not
found in nearly so remarkable a degree in any other
people, white or colored. In an official account of
the blacks of Australia published by the government
of Victoria, one reads that the aboriginal not only
notices the faint marks left on the bark of a tree by
the claws of a climbing opossum, but knows in some
way or other whether the marks were made to-day
or yesterday.

And there is the case, on record, where A, a
settler, makes a bet with B, that B may lose a cow

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

as effectually as he can, and A will produce an
aboriginal who will find her. B selects a cow and
lets the tracker see the cow's footprint, then be put
under guard. B then drives the cow a few miles
over the course which drifts in all directions, and
frequently doubles back upon itself; and he selects
difficult ground all the time, and once or twice even
drives the cow through herds of other cows, and
mingles her tracks in the wide confusion of theirs.
He finally brings his cow home; the aboriginal is
set at liberty, and at once moves around in a great
circle, examining all cow-tracks until he finds the
one he is after ; then sets off and follows it through-
out its erratic course, and ultimately tracks it to the
stable where B has hidden the cow. Now wherein
does one cow- track differ from another ? There must
be a difference, or the tracker could not have per-
formed the feat; a difference minute, shadowy, and
not detectible by you or me, or by the late Sherlock
Holmes, and yet discernible by a member of a race
charged by some people with occupying the bottom
place in the gradations of human intelligence.

157

CHAPTER XVIII

It is easier to stay out than get out. — Pudd'nkead Wilson's New Calendar.

THE train was now exploring a beautiful hill
country, and went twisting in and out through
lovely little green valleys. There were several varie-
ties of gum trees; among them many giants. Some
of them were bodied and barked like the sycamore;
some were of fantastic aspect, and reminded one of
the quaint apple trees in Japanese pictures. And
there was one peculiarly beautiful tree whose name
and breed I did not know. The foliage seemed to
consist of big bunches of pine spines, the lower
half of each bunch a rich brown or old-gold color,
the upper half a most vivid and strenuous and shout-
ing green. The effect was altogether bewitchip g.
The tree was apparently rare. I should say that
the first and last samples of it seen by us were not
more than half an hour apart. There was another
tree of striking aspect, a kind of pine, we were told.
Its foliage was as fine as hair, apparently, and its
mass sphered itself above the naked straight stem
like an explosion of misty smoke. It was not a
sociable sort ; it did not gather in groups or couples,
but each individual stood far away from its nearest
neighbor. It scattered itself in this spacious and
exclusive fashion about the slopes of swelling grassy

I£8

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOF

great knolls, and stood in the full flood of the won-
derful sunshine; and as far as you could see the tree
itself you could also see the ink-black blot of its
shadow on the shining green carpet at its feet.

On some part of this railway journey we saw gorse
and broom — importations from England — and a
gentleman who came into our compartment on a
visit tried to tell me which was which; but as he
didn't know, he had difficulty. He said he was
ashamed of his ignorance, but that he had never been
confronted with the question before during the fifty
years and more that he had spent in Australia, and
so he had never happened to get interested in the
matter. But there was no need to be ashamed.
The most of us have his defect. We take a natural
interest in novelties, but it is against nature to take
an interest in familiar things. The gorse and the
broom were a fine accent in the landscape. Here
and there they burst out in sudden conflagrations of
vivid yellow against a background of sober or somber
color, with a so startling effect as to make a body
catch his breath with the happy surprise of it. And
then there was the wattle, a native bush or tree, an
inspiring cloud of sumptuous yellow bloom. It is a
favorite with the Australians, and has a fine fra-
grance, a quality usually wanting in Australian
blossoms.

The gentleman who enriched me with the poverty
of his information about the gorse and the broom
told me that he came out from England a youth of
twenty and entered the province of South Australia
with thirty-six shillings in his pocket — an advea*

iS9

MARK TWAIN

rarer without trade, profession, or friends, but with
a clearly defined purpose in his head : he would stay
until he was worth £200, then go back home. He
would allow himself five years for the accumulation
of this fortune.

"That was more than fifty years ago," said he.
"And here I am, yet."

As he went out at the door he met a friend, and
turned and introduced him to me, and the friend
and I had a talk and a smoke. I spoke of the pre-
vious conversation and said there was something
very pathetic about this half -century of exile, and
that I wished the £200 scheme had succeeded.

"With him? Oh, it did. It's not so sad a case.
He is modest, and he left out some of the particu-
lars. The lad reached South Australia just in time
to help discover the Burra-Burra copper-mines.
They turned out £700,000 in the first three years.
Up to now they have yielded £20,000,000. He has
had his share. Before that boy had been in the
country two years he could have gone home and
bought a village; he could go now and buy a city,
I think. No, there is nothing very pathetic about
his case. He and his copper arrived at just a handy
time to save South Australia. It had got mashed
pretty flat under the collapse of a land boom a while
before."

There it is again; picturesque history — Australia's
specialty. In 1829 South Australia hadn't a white
man in it. In 1836 the British Parliament erected
it — still a solitude — into a province, and gave it
a governor and other governmental machinery.

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

Speculators took hold, now, and inaugurated a vast
land scheme, and invited immigration, encouraging
it with lurid promises of sudden wealth. It was
well worked in London; and bishops, statesmen,
and all sorts of people made a rush for the land
company's shares. Immigrants soon began to pour
into the region of Adelaide and select town lots
and farms in the sand and the mangrove swamps
by the sea. The crowds continued to come, prices
of land rose high, then higher and still higher,
everybody was prosperous and happy, the boom
swelled into gigantic proportions. A village of sheet-
iron huts and clapboard sheds sprang up in the sand,
and in these wigwams fashion made display; richly
dressed ladies played on costly pianos, London
swells in evening dress and patent-leather boots were
abundant, and this fine society drank champagne,
and in other ways conducted itself in this capital
of humble sheds as it had been accustomed to do in
the aristocratic quarters of the metropolis of the
world. The provincial government put up expen-
sive buildings for its own use, and a palace with
gardens for the use of its governor. The governor
had a guard, and maintained a court. Roads,
wharves, and hospitals were built. All this on credit,
on paper, on wind, on inflated and fictitious values —
on the boom's moonshine, in fact.

This went on handsomely during four or five
years. Then all of a sudden came a smash. Bills
for a huge amount drawn by the governor upon the
Treasury were dishonored, the land company's credit
went up in smoke, a panic followed, values fell witk

161

MARK TWAIN

a rush, the frightened immigrants seized their grip-
sacks and fled to other lands, leaving behind them a
good imitation of a solitude, where lately had been
a buzzing and populous hive of men.

Adelaide was indeed almost empty; its population
had fallen to three thousand. During two years or
more the death-trance continued. Prospect of re-
vival there was none; hope of it ceased. Then, as
suddenly as the paralysis had come, came the resur-
rection from it. Those astonishingly rich copper-
mines were discovered, and the corpse got up and
danced.

The wool production began to grow; grain-raising
followed — followed so vigorously, too, that four or
five years after the copper discovery, this little
colony, which had had to import its breadstuffs
formerly, and pay hard prices for them — once fifty
dollars a barrel for flour — had become an exporter
of grain. The prosperities continued. After many
years, Providence, desiring to show especial regard
for New South Wales and exhibit a loving interest
in its welfare which should certify to all nations the
recognition of that colony's conspicuous righteous-
ness and distinguished well-deserving, conferred upon
it that treasury of inconceivable riches, Broken Hill ;
and South Australia went over the border and took
it, giving thanks.

Among our passengers was an American with a
unique vocation. Unique is a strong word, but I
use it justifiably if I did not misconceive what the
American told me; for I understood him to say
that in the world there was not another man engaged

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

in the business which he was following. He was
buying the kangaroo-skin crop; buying all of it,
both the Australian crop and the Tasmanian; and
buying it for an American house in New York. The
prices were not high, as there was no competition,
but the year's aggregate of skins would cost him
thirty thousand pounds. I had had the idea that
the kangaroo was about extinct in Tasmania and
well thinned out on the continent. In America the
skins are tanned and made into shoes. After the
tanning, the leather takes a new name — which I have
forgotten — I only remember that the new name does
not indicate that the kangaroo furnishes the leather.
There was a German competition for a while, some
years ago, but that has ceased. The Germans failed
to arrive at the secret of tanning the skins success-
fully, and they withdrew from the business. Now
then, I suppose that I have seen a man whose occu-
pation is really entitled to bear that high epithet —
unique. And I suppose that there is not another
occupation in the world that is restricted to the hands
of a sole person. I can think of no instance of it.
There is more than one Pope, there is more than one
Emperor, there is even more than one living god,
walking upon the earth and worshiped in all sincerity
by large populations of men. I have seen and
talked with two of these Beings myself in India, and
I have the autograph of one of them. It can come
good, by and by, I reckon, if I attach it to a
"permit. "

Approaching Adelaide we dismounted from the
train, as the French say, and were driven in an open

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MARK TWAIN

carriage over the hills and along their slopes to the
city. It was an excursion of an hour or two, and
the charm of it could not be overstated, I think.
The road wound around gaps and gorges, and offered
all varieties of scenery and prospect — mountains,
crags, country homes, gardens, forests — color, color,
color everywhere, and the air fine and fresh, the
skies blue, and not a shred of cloud to mar the down-
pour of the brilliant sunshine. And finally the
mountain gateway opened, and the immense plain
lay spread out below and stretching away into dim
distances on every hand, soft and delicate and
dainty and beautiful. On its near edge reposed the
city.

We descended 'and entered. There was nothing
to remind one of the humble capital of huts and
sheds of the long-vanished day of the land-boom.
No, this was a modern city, with wide streets, com-
pactly built; with fine homes everywhere, embow-
ered in foliage and flowers, and with imposing masses
of public buildings nobly grouped and architecturally
beautiful.

There was prosperity in the air; for another boom
was on. Providence, desiring to show especial regard
for the neighboring colony on the west — called
Western Australia — and exhibit a loving interest in
its welfare which should certify to all nations the
recognition of that colony's conspicuous righteous-
ness and distinguished well-deserving, had recently
conferred upon it that majestic treasury of golden
riches, Coolgardie; and now South Australia had
gone around the corner and taken it, giving thanks.

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

Everything comes to him who is patient and good,
and waits.

But South Australia deserves much, for apparently
she is a hospitable home for every alien who chooses
to come; and for his religion, too. She has a
population, as per the latest census, of only three
hundred and twenty thousand odd, and yet her
varieties of religion indicate the presence within her
borders of samples of people from pretty nearly
every part of the globe you can think of. Tabulated,
these varieties of religion make a remarkable show.
One would have to go far to find its match. I copy
here this cosmopolitan curiosity, and it comes from
the published census:

Church of England . 89,271

Roman Catholic . . 47,179

Wesleyan 49,^59

Lutheran 23,328

Presbyterian .... 18,206

Congregationalist . . 11,882

Bible Christian . . . 15,762

Primitive Methodist, . 11,654

Baptist I7i547

Christian Brethren . . 465
Methodist New Connexion 39

Unitarian 688

Church of Christ . . 3,367

Society of Friends . . 100

Salvation Army . . . 4,356

New Jerusalem Church 168

Jews 840

Protestants (undefined) 5,532

Mohammedans . . . 299

Confucians, etc. . . . 3,884

Other religions . . . 1,719

Object 6,940

Not stated .... 8,046

Total

320,431

The item in the above list "Other religions" in-

cludes the following as returned:

Agnostics 50

Atheists' 22

Believers in Christ ... 4

Buddhists 52

Calvinists 46

Christadelphians .... 134

Christians . . .
Christ's Chapel .
Christian Israelites
Christian Socialists
Church of God .
Cosmopolitans

308

9
2
6
6
3

165

MARK TWAIN

Deists 14

Evangelists 60

Exclusive Brethren ... 8

Free Church 21

Free Methodists .... 5

Free-thinkers 258

Followers of Christ ... 8

Gospel Meetings .... 11

Greek Church 44

Infidels 9

Maronites 2

Mennonists 1

Moravians 139

Mormons 4

Naturalists 2

Orthodox 4

Others (indefinite) ... 17

Pagans 20

Pantheists 3

Plymouth Brethren . . . ill

Rationalists 4

Reformers 7

Secularists 12

Seventh-day Adventists . 203

Shaker 1

Shintoists 24

Spiritualists 37

Theosophists 9

Town (City) Mission . . 16

Welsh/ Church 27

Huguenot 2

Hussite I

Zoroastrians 2

Zwinglian 1

About sixty-four roads to the other world. You
see how healthy the religious atmosphere is. Any-
thing can live in it. Agnostics, Atheists, Free-think-
ers, Infidels, Mormons, Pagans, Indefinites: they
are all there. And all the big sects of the world can
do more than merely live in it: they can spread,
flourish, prosper. All except the Spiritualists and
the Theosophists. That is the most curious feature
of this curious table. What is the matter with the
specter? Why do they puff him away? He is a
welcome toy everywhere else in the world.

166

\

\

CHAPTER XIX

Pity is for the living, envy is for the dead.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

THE successor of the sheet-iron hamlet of the
mangrove marshes has that other Australian
specialty, the Botanical Gardens. We cannot have
these paradises. The best we could do would be to
cover a vast acreage under glass and apply steam
heat. But it would be inadequate, the lacks would
still be so great: the confined sense, the sense of
suffocation, the atmospheric dimness, the sweaty
heat — these would all be there, in place of the
Australian openness to the sky, the sunshine, and the
breeze. Whatever will grow under glass with us
will flourish rampantly out-of-doors in Australia.1
When the white man came the continent was nearly
as poor, in variety of vegetation, as the desert of
Sahara; now it has everything that grows on the
earth. In fact, not Australia only, but all Austral-
asia has levied tribute upon the flora of the rest of
the world ; and wherever one goes the results appear,
in gardens private and public, in the woodsy walls
of the highways, and in even the forests. If you

xThe greatest heat in Victoria, that there is an authoritative
record of, was at Sandhurst, in January, 1862. The thermometer
then registered 117 degrees in the shade. In January, 1880, the
heat at Adelaide, South Australia, was 172 degrees in the sun.

167

MARK TWAIN

sec a curious or beautiful tree or bush or 'flower,
and ask about it, the people, answering, usually
name a foreign country as the place of its origin —
India, Africa, Japan, China, England, America, Java,
Sumatra, New Guinea, Polynesia, and so on.

In the Zoological Gardens of Adelaide I saw the
only laughing jackass that ever showed any disposi-
tion to be courteous to me. This one opened his
head wide and laughed like a demon; or like a
maniac who was consumed with humorous scorn
over a cheap and degraded pun. It was a very
human laugh. If he had been out of sight I could
have believed that the laughter came from a man.
It is an odd-looking bird, with a head and beak that
are much too large for its body. In time man will
exterminate the rest of the wild creatures of Aus-
tralia, but this one will probably survive, for man is
his friend and lets him alone. Man always has a
good reason for his charities toward wild things,
human or animal — when he has any. In this case
the bird is spared because he kills snakes. If L. J.
will take my advice he will not kill all of them.

In that garden I also saw the wild Australian dog—
the dingo. He was a beautiful creature — shapely,
graceful, a little wolfish in some of his aspects,
but with a most friendly eye and sociable disposi-
tion. The dingo is not an importation; he was
present in great force when the whites first came
to the continent. It may be that he is the oldest
dog in the universe; his origin, his descent, the
place where his ancestors first appeared, are as
unknown and as untraceable as are the camel's. He

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

is the most precious dog in the world, for he does
not bark. But in an evil hour he got to raiding the
sheep-runs to appease his hunger, and that sealed
his doom. He is hunted, now, just as if he were a
wolf. He has been sentenced to extermination, and
the sentence will be carried out. This is all right,
and not objectionable. The world was made for
man — the white man.

South Australia is confusingly named. All of the
colonies have a southern exposure except one —
Queensland. Properly speaking, South Australia is
middle Australia. It extends straight up through
the center of the continent like the middle board in
a center-table. It is two thousand miles high, from
south to north, and about a third as wide. A wee
little spot down in its southeastern corner contains
eight or nine tenths of its population; the other one
or two tenths are elsewhere — as elsewhere as they
could be in the United States with all the country
between Denver and Chicago, and Canada and the
Gulf of Mexico to scatter over. There is plenty of
room.

A telegraph line stretches straight up north
through that two thousand miles of wilderness and
desert from Adelaide to Port Darwin on the edge of
the upper ocean. South Australia built the line;
and did it in 1871-72 when her population numbered
only one hundred and eighty-five thousand. It was
a great work; for there were no roads, no paths;
thirteen hundred miles of the route had been trav-
ersed but once before by white men; provisions,
wire, and poles had to be carried over immense

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MARK TWAIN

stretches of desert; wells had to be dug along the
route to supply the men and cattle with water.

A cable, had been previously laid from Port Dar-
win to Java and thence to India, and there was
telegraphic communication with England from India.
And so, if Adelaide could make connection with
Port Darwin it meant connection with the whole
world. The enterprise succeeded. One could watch
the London markets daily, now; the profit to the
wool-growers of Australia was instant and enormous.

A telegram from Melbourne to San Francisco
covers approximately twenty thousand miles — the
equivalent of five-sixths of the way around the globe.
It has to halt along the way a good many times and
be repeated; still, but little time is lost. These halts,
and the distances between them, are here tabulated.1

Melbourne — Mount Gambier
Mount Gambier — Adelaide .
Adelaide — Port Augusta . .
Port Augusta — Alice Springs
Alice Springs — Port Darwin
Port Darwin — Banjoewangie
Banjoewangie — Batavia .
Batavia — Singapore . . .
Singapore — Penang . . .
Penang — Madras ....

Miles
300
270
200

1,036
898

1,150
480
553
399

1,280

Miles

Madras — Bombay 650

Bombay — Aden 1,662

Aden — Suez ....... 1,346

Suez — Alexandria 1 .... . 224

Alexandria — Malta 828

Malta — Gibraltar 1,008

Gibraltar — Falmouth . . . .1,061

Falmouth — London 350

London — New York .... 2,500
New York — San Francisco . . 3.S00

I was in Adelaide again, some months later, and
saw the multitudes gather in the neighboring city of
Glenelg to commemorate the Reading of the Procla-
mation— in 1836 — which founded the Province. If
I have at any time called it a Colony, I withdraw
the discourtesy. It is not a Colony, it is a Province ;
and officially so. Moreover, it is the only one so
named in Australasia. There was great enthusiasm;

1 From Round the Empire (George R. Parkin), all but the last two.

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THE OLD SETTLERS

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

it was the Province's national holiday, its Fourth of
July, so to speak. It is the pre-eminent holiday;
and that is saying much, in a country where they
seem to have a most un-English mania for holidays.
Mainly they are working-men's holidays; for in
South Australia the working-man is sovereign; his
vote is the desire of the politician — indeed, it is the
very breath of the politician's being; the parliament
exists to deliver the will of the working-man, and the
Government exists to execute it. The working-man
is a great power everywhere in Australia, but South
Australia is his paradise. He has had a hard time
in this world, and has earned a paradise. I am glad
he has found it. The holidays there are frequent
enough to be bewildering to the stranger. I tried
to get the hang of the system, but was not able to
do it.

You have seen that the Province is tolerant,
religious-wise. It is so politically, also. One of the
speakers at the Commemoration banquet — the Min-
ister of Public Works — was an American, born and
reared in New England. There is nothing narrow
about the Province, politically, or in any other way
that I know of. Sixty-four religions and a Yankee
cabinet minister. No amount of horse-racing can
damn this community.

The mean temperature of the Province is sixty-two
degrees. The death-rate is thirteen in the one thou-
sand— about half what it is in the city of New York,
I should think, and New York is a healthy city.
Thirteen is the death-rate for the average citizen of
the Province, but there seems to be no death-rate for

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MARK TWAIN

the old people. There were people at the Commemo-
ration banquet who could remember Cromwell.
There were six of them. These Old Settlers had all
been present at the original Reading of the Procla-
mation, in 1836. They showed signs of the blight»
ings and blastings of time, in their outward aspect,
but they were young within; young and cheerful,
and ready to talk; ready to talk, and talk all yoii
wanted; in their turn, and out of it. They were
down for six speeches, and they made forty-two.
The governor and the cabinet and the mayor were
down for forty-two speeches, and they made six.
They have splendid grit, the Old Settlers, splendid
staying power. But they do not hear well, and when
they see the mayor going through motions which
they recognize as the introducing of a speaker, they
think they are the one, and they all get up together,
and begin to respond, in the most animated way;
and the more the mayor gesticulates, and shouts
"Sit down! Sit down!" the more they take it for
applause, and the more excited and reminiscent and
enthusiastic they get; and next, when they see the
whole house laughing and crying, three of them
think it is about the bitter old-time hardships they
are describing, and the other three think the laughter
is caused by the jokes they have been uncorking —
jokes of the vintage of 1836 — and then the way they
do go on ! And finally when ushers come and plead,
and beg, and gently and reverently crowd them down
into their seats, they say, "Oh, I'm not tired — I
could bang along a week!" and they sit there looking
simple and childlike, and gentle, and proud of their

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

oratory, and wholly unconscious of what is going
on at the other end of the room. And so one of
the great dignitaries gets a chance, and begins his
carefully prepared speech, impressively and with
solemnity :

When we, now great and prosperous and powerful, bow our
heads in reverent wonder in the contemplation of those sublimi-
ties of energy, of wisdom, of forethought, of —

Up come the immortal six again, in a body, with
a joyous "Hey, I've thought of another one!" and
at it they go, with might and main, hearing not a
whisper of the pandemonium that salutes them, but
taking all the visible violences for applause, as be-
fore, and hammering joyously away till the implor-
ing ushers pray them into their seats again. And a
pity, too; for those lovely old boys did so enjoy
living their heroic youth over, in these days of their
honored antiquity ; and certainly the things they had
to tell were usually worth the telling and the hearing.

It was a stirring spectacle; stirring in more ways
than one, for it was amazingly funny, and at the
same time deeply pathetic; for they had seen so
much, these time-worn veterans, and had suffered so
much; and had built so strongly and well, and laid
the foundations of their commonwealth so deep, in
liberty and tolerance; and had lived to see the
structure rise to such state and dignity and hear
themselves so praised for their honorable work.

One of these old gentlemen told me some things
of interest afterward; things about the aboriginals,
mainly. He thought them intelligent — remarkably
so in some directions — and he said that along with

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MARK TWAIN

their unpleasant qualities they had some exceedingly
good ones; and he considered it a great pity that
the race had died out. He instanced their invention
of the boomerang and the "weet-weet" as evidences
of their brightness; and as another evidence of it
he said he had never seen a white man who had
cleverness enough to learn to do the miracles with
those two toys that the aboriginals achieved. He
said that even the smartest whites had been obliged
to confess that they could not learn the trick of the
boomerang in perfection; that it had possibilities
which they could not master. The white man could
not control its motions, could not make it obey
him; but the aboriginal could. He told me some
wonderful things — some almost incredible things —
which he had seen the blacks do with the boomerang
and the weet-weet. They have been confirmed to
me since b}^ other early settlers and by trustworthy
books.

It is contended — and may be said to be conceded —
that the boomerang was known to certain savage
tribes in Europe in Roman times. In support of
this, Virgil and two other Roman poets are quoted.
It is also contended that it was 'known to the ancient
Egyptians.

One of two things is then apparent; either some
one with a boomerang arrived in Australia in the
flays of antiquity before European knowledge of the
thing had been lost, or the Australian aboriginal
re-invented it. It will take some time to find out
which of these two propositions is the fact. But
there is no hurry.

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CHAPTER XX

It is by the goodness of God that in our country we have those three unspeak.
ably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, and the prudenca
never to practise either of them. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

FROM Diary:
Mr. G. called. I had not seen him since
Nauheim, Germany — several years ago; the time
that the cholera broke out at Hamburg. We talked
of the people we had known there, or had casually
met; and G. said:

"Do you remember my introducing you to an
earl— the Earl of C. ?"

"Yes. That was the last time I saw you. You
and he were in a carriage, just starting — belated —
for the train. I remember it."

"I remember it too, because of a thing which
happened then which I was not looking for. He
had told me awhile before about a remarkable and
interesting Californian whom he had met and who
was a friend of yours, and said that if he should
ever meet you he would ask you for some particulars
about that Californian. The subject was not men-
tioned that day at Nauheim, for we were hurrying
away, and there was no time; but the thing that
surprised me was this: when I introduced you, you
said, 'I am glad to meet your lordship — again.'
The 'again' was the surprise. He is a little hard

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MARK TWAIN

of hearing, and didn't catch that word, and I thought
you hadn't intended that he should. As we drove
off I had only time to say, 'Why, what do you know
about him?' and I understood you to say, 'Oh,
nothing, except that he is the quickest judge of — '
Then we were gone, and I didn't get the rest. I
wondered what it was that he was such a quick
judge of. I have thought of it many times since,
and still wondered what it could be. He and I
talked it over, but could not guess it out. He
thought it must be fox-hounds or horses, for he is a
good judge of those — no one is a better. But you
couldn't know that, because you didn't know him;
you had mistaken him for some one else; it must be
that, he said, because he knew you had never met
him before. And of course you hadn't — had you?"

"Yes, I had."

"Is that so? Where?"

"At a fox-hunt, in England."

"How curious that is. Why, he hadn't the least
recollection of it. Had you any conversation with
him?"

"Some — yes."

"Well, it left not the least impression upon him.
What did you talk about?"

"About the fox. I think that was all."

"Why, that would interest him; that ought to
have left an impression. What did he talk about?"

"The fox."

*'It's very curious. I don't understand it. Did
what he said leave an impression upon you?"
'Yes. It showed me that he was a quick judge

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of — however, I will tell you all about it, then you
will understand. It was a quarter of a century ago
1 — 1873 or '74. I had an American friend in Lon-
don named F., who was fond of hunting, and his
friends the Blanks invited him and me to come out
to a hunt and be their guests at their country place.
In the morning the mounts were provided, but when
I saw the horses I changed my mind and asked
permission to walk. I had never seen an English
hunter before, and it seemed to me that I could
hunt a fox safer on the ground. I had always been
diffident about horses, anyway, even those of the
common altitudes, and I did not feel competent to
hunt on a horse that went on stilts. So then Mrs.
Blank came to my help and said I could go with her
in the dog-cart and we would drive to a place she
knew of, and there we should have a good glimpse
of the hunt as it went by.

"When we got to that place I got out and went
and leaned my elbows on a low stone wall which
inclosed a turfy and beautiful great field with heavy
wood on all its sides except ours. Mrs. Blank sat
in the dog-cart fifty yards away, which was as near
as she could get with the vehicle. I was full of
interest, for I had never seen a fox-hunt. I waited,
dreaming and imagining, in the deep stillness and
impressive tranquillity which reigned in that retired
spot. Presently, from away off in the forest on the
left, a mellow bugle-note came floating; then all of
a sudden a multitude of dogs burst out of that forest
and went tearing by and disappeared in the forest
on the right ; there was a pause, and then a cloud of

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MARK TWAIN

horsemen in black caps and crimson coats plunged
out of the left-hand forest and went flaming across
the field like a prairie-fire, a stirring sight to see.
There was one man ahead of the rest, and he came
spurring straight at me. He was fiercely excited.
It was fine to see him ride; he was a master horse-
man. He came like a storm till he was within seven
feet of me, where I was leaning on the wall, then he
stood his horse straight up in the air on his hind
toe-nails, and shouted like a demon:

"'Which way'd the fox go?'

"I didn't much like the tone, but I did not let
on; for he was excited, you know. But I was
calm; so I said softly, and without acrimony:

"'Which fox?'

"It seemed to anger him. I don't know why;
and he thundered out :

"'Which fox? Why, the fox! Which way did
the fox go?'

"I said, with great gentleness — even argumenta-
tively :

"Tf you could be a little more definite — a little
less vague — because I am a stranger, and there are
many foxes, as you will know even better than I,
and unless I know which one it is that you desire to
identify, and — '

"'You're certainly the damnedest idiot that has
escaped in a thousand years!' and he snatched his
great horse around as easily as I would snatch a cat,
and was away like a hurricane. A very excitable man.

' ' I went back to Mrs. Blank, and she was excited,
too — oh, all alive. She said:

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'He spoke to you! — didn't he?'
'Yes, it is what happened.'

'I knew it! I couldn't hear what he said, but I
knew he spoke to you! Do you know who it was?
It was Lord C, — and he is Master of the Buck-
hounds! Tell me — what do you think of him?'

'"Him? Well, for sizing up a stranger, he's got
the most sudden and accurate judgment of any man
I ever saw.'

"It pleased her. I thought it would."
G. got away from Nauheim just in time to escape
being shut in by the quarantine-bars on the fron-
tiers; and so did we, for we left the next day. But
G. had a great deal of trouble in getting by the
Italian custom-house, and we should have fared like-
wise but for the thoughtfulness of our consul-general
in Frankfort. He introduced me to the Italian
consul-general, and I brought away from that con-
sulate a letter which made our way smooth. It was
a dozen lines merely commending me in a general
way to the courtesies of servants in his Italian
Majesty's service, but it was more powerful than it
looked. In addition to a raft of ordinary baggage,
we had six or eight trunks which were filled exclu-
sively with dutiable stuff — household goods pur-
chased in Frankfort for use in Florence, where we
had taken a house. I was going to ship these
through by express ; but at the last moment an order
went throughout Germany forbidding the moving
of any parcels by train unless the owner went with
them. This was a bad outlook. We must take
these things along, and the delay sure to be caused

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MARK TWAIN

by the examination of them in the custom-house
might lose us our train. I imagined all sorts of
terrors, and enlarged them steadily as we approached
the Italian frontier. We were six in number, clogged
with all that baggage, and I was courier for the
party — the most incapable one they ever employed.

We arrived, and pressed with the crowd into the
immense custom-house, and the usual worries began;
everybody crowding to the center and begging to
have his baggage examined first, and all hands clat-
tering and chattering at once. It seemed to me that
I could do nothing; it would be better to give it all
up and go away and leave the baggage. I couldn't
speak the language; I should never accomplish any-
thing. Just then a tall, handsome man in a fine
uniform was passing by, and I knew he must be the
station-master — and that reminded me of my letter.
I ran to him and put it into his hands. He took it
out of the envelope, and the moment his eye caught
the royal coat of arms printed at its top, he took off
his cap and made a beautiful bow to me, and said
in English:

"Which is your baggage? Please show it to me."

I showed him the mountain. Nobody was dis-
turbing it; nobody was interested in it; all the
family's attempts to get attention to it had failed —
except in the case of one of the trunks containing
the dutiable goods. It was just being opened. My
officer said:

"There, let that alone! Lock it. Now chalk it.
Chalk all of the lot. Now please come and show
me the hand-baggage."

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He plowed through the waiting crowd, I following^
to the counter, and he gave orders again, in his
emphatic military way :

' ' Chalk these. Chalk all of them. ' '

Then he took off his cap and made that beautiful
bow again, and went his way. By this time these
attentions had attracted the wonder of that acre of
passengers, and the whisper had gone around that
the royal family were present getting their baggage
chalked; and as we passed down in review on our
way to the door, I was conscious of a pervading
atmosphere of envy which gave me deep satisfaction.

But soon there was an accident. My overcoat
pockets were stuffed with German cigars and linen
packages of American smoking-tobacco, and a porter
was following us around with this overcoat on his
arm, and gradually getting it upside down. Just as
I, in the rear of my family, moved by the sentinels
at the door, about three hatfuls of the tobacco
tumbled out on the floor. One of the soldiers
pounced upon it, gathered it up in his arms, pointed
back whence I had come, and marched me ahead of
him past that long wall of passengers again — he
chattering and exulting like a devil, they smiling in
peaceful joy, and I trying to look as if my pride was
not hurt, and as if I did not mind being brought to
shame before these pleased people who had so lately
envied me. But at heart I was cruelly humbled.

When I had been marched two-thirds of the long
distance and the misery of it was at the worst, the
stately station-master stepped out from somewhere,
and the soldier left me and darted after him and

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MARK TWAIN

overtook him; and I could see by the soldier's
excited gestures that he was betraying to him the
•whole shabby business. The station-master was
plainly very angry. He came striding down toward
me, and when he was come near he began to pour
out a stream of indignant Italian; then suddenly
took off his hat and made that beautiful bow and
said:

"Oh, it is you! I beg a thousand pardons! This
idiot here — " He turned to the exulting soldier
and burst out with a flood of white-hot Italian lava,
and the next moment he was bowing, and the soldier
and I were moving in procession again — he in the
lead and ashamed, this time, I with my chin up.
And so we marched by the crowd of fascinated
passengers, and I went forth to the train with the
honors of war. Tobacco and all.

182

CHAPTER XXI

Man will do many things to get himself loved, he will do all things to get him-
eelf envied. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

BEFORE I saw Australia I had never heard of the
"weet-weet" at all. I met but few men who
had seen it thrown — at least I met but few who
mentioned having seen it thrown. Roughly de-
scribed, it is a fat wooden cigar with its butt-end
fastened to a flexible twig. The whole thing is only
a couple of feet long, and weighs less than two
ounces. This feather — so to call it — is not thrown
through the air, but is flung with an underhanded
throw and made to strike the ground a little way in
front of the thrower; then it glances and makes a
long skip; glances again, skips again, and again and
again, like the flat stone which a boy sends skating
over the water. The water is smooth, and the stone
has a good chance; so a strong man may make it
travel fifty or seventy-five yards ; but the weet-weet
has no such good chance, for it strikes sand, grass,
and earth in its course. Yet an expert aboriginal
has sent it a measured distance of two hundred and
twenty yards. It would have gone even further, but
it encountered rank ferns and underwood on its
passage and they damaged its speed. Two hundred
and twenty yards ; and so weightless a toy — a mouse

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MARK TWAIN

on the end of a bit of wire, in effect; and not sailing
through the accommodating air, but encountering
grass and sand and stuff at every jump. It looks
wholly impossible; but Mr. Brough Smyth saw
the feat and did the measuring, and set down the
facts in his book about aboriginal life, which he
wrote by command of the Victorian Government.
What is the secret of the feat? No one explains.
It cannot be physical strength, for that could not
drive such a feather-weight any distance. It must
be art. But no one explains what the art of it is;
nor how it gets around that law of nature which says
you shall not throw any two-ounce thing two hundred
and twenty yards, either through the air or bumping
along the ground. Rev. J. G. Wood says:

The distance to which the weet-weet or kangaroo-rat can be
thrown is truly astonishing. I have seen an Australian stand at
one side of Kennington Oval and throw the kangaroo-rat com-
pletely across it. [Width of Kennington Oval not stated.] It
darts through the air with the sharp and menacing hiss of a rifle-
ball, its greatest height from the ground being some seven or
eight feet. . . . When properly thrown it looks just like a
living animal leaping along. ... Its movements have a won-
derful resemblance to the long leaps of a kangaroo-rat fleeing in
alarm, with its long tail trailing behind it.

The Old Settler said that he had seen distances
made by the weet-weet, in the early days, which
almost convinced him that it was as extraordinary
an instrument as the boomerang.

There must have been a large distribution of acute-
ness among those naked, skinny aboriginals, or they
couldn't have been such unapproachable trackers
and boomerangers and weet-weeters. It must have

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been race-aversion that put upon them a good deal
of the low-rate intellectual reputation which they
bear and have borne this long time in the world's
estimate of them.

They were lazy — always lazy. Perhaps that was
their trouble. It is a killing defect. Surely they
could have invented and built a competent house,
but they didn't. And they could have invented and
developed the agricultural arts, but they didn't.
They went naked and houseless, and lived on fish
and grubs and worms and wild fruits, and were just
plain savages, for all their smartness.

With a country as big as the United States to live
and multiply in, and with no epidemic diseases
among them till the white man came with those and
his other appliances of civilization, it is quite proba-
ble that there was never a day in his history when
he could muster one hundred thousand of his race in
all Australia. He diligently and deliberately kept
population down by infanticide — largely ; but mainly
by certain other methods. He did not need to prac-
tise these artificialities any more after the white man
came. The white man knew ways of keeping down
population which were worth several of his. The
white man knew ways of reducing a native popula-
tion eighty per cent, in twenty years. The native
had never seen anything as fine as that before.

For example, there is the case of the country now
called Victoria — a country eighty times as large as
Rhode Island, as I have already said. By the best
official guess there were forty-five hundred aborigi-
nals in it when the whites came along in the middle

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of the thirties. Of these one thousand lived in
Gippsland, a patch of territory the size of fifteen or
sixteen Rhode Islands: they did not diminish as
fast as some of the other communities; indeed, at
the end of forty years there were still two hundred of
them left. The Geelong tribe diminished more satis-
factorily: from one hundred and seventy- three per-
sons it faded to thirty-four in twenty years; at the
end of another twenty the tribe numbered one person
altogether. The two Melbourne tribes could muster
almost three hundred when the white man came;
they could muster but twenty thirty-seven years
later, in 1875. In that year there were still odds
and ends of tribes scattered about the colony of
Victoria, but I was told that natives of full blood
are very scarce now. It is said that the aboriginals
continue in some force in the huge territory called
Queensland.

The early whites were not used to savages. They
could not understand the primary law of savage life;
that if a man do you a wrong, his whole tribe 13
responsible — each individual of it — and you may
take your change out of any individual of it, without
bothering to seek out the guilty one. When a white
killed an aboriginal, the tribe applied the ancient law,
and killed the first white they came across. To
the whites this was a monstrous thing. Extermina-
tion seemed to be the proper medicine for such crea-
tures as this. They did not kill all the blacks, but
they promptly killed enough of them to make their
own persons safe. From the dawn of civilization
down to this day the white man has always used

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that very precaution. Mrs. Campbell Praed lived in
Queensland, as a child, in the early days, and in her
Sketches of Australian Life we get informing pictures
of the early struggles of the white and the black to
reform each other.

Speaking of pioneer days in the mighty wilderness
of Queensland, Mrs. Praed says :

At first the natives retreated before the whites; [and, except
that they every now and then speared a beast in one of the herds,
gave little cause for uneasiness. But, as the number of squatters
increased, each one taking up miles of country and bringing
two or three men in his train, so that shepherds' huts and stock-
men's camps lay far apart, and defenseless in the midst of hostile
tribes, the Blacks' depredations became more frequent and mur-
der was no unusual event.

The loneliness of the Australian bush can hardly be painted
in words. Here extends mile after mile of primeval forest where
perhaps foot of white man has never trod — interminable vistas
where the eucalyptus trees rear their lofty trunks and spread
forth their lanky limbs, from which the red gum oozes and hangs
in fantastic pendants like crimson stalactites; ravines along the
sides of which the long-bladed grass grows rankly; level untim-
bered plains alternating with undulating tracts of pasture, here
and there broken by a stony ridge, steep gully, or dried-up creek.
All wild, vast, and desolate; all the same monotonous gray
coloring, except where the wattle, when in blossom, shows
patches of feathery gold, or a belt of scrub lies green, glossy,
and impenetrable as Indian jungle.

The solitude seems intensified by the strange sounds of rep-
tiles, birds, and insects, and by the absence of larger creatures;
of which in the daytime the only audible signs are the stampede
of a herd of kangaroo, or the rustle of a wallabi, or a dingo stirring
the grass as it creeps to its lair. But there are the whirring of
locusts, the demoniac chuckle of the laughing jackass, the
screeching of cockatoos and parrots, the hissing of the frilled
lizard, and the buzzing of innumerable insects hidden under the
dense undergrowth. And then at night, the melancholy wailing

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MARK TWAIN

of the curlews, the dismal howling of dingoes, the discordant
croaking of tree-frogs, might well shake the nerves of the solitary
watcher.

That is the theater for the drama. When you
comprehend one or two other details, you will per-
ceive how well suited for trouble it was, and how
loudly it invited it. The cattlemen's stations were
scattered over that profound wilderness miles and
miles apart — at each station half a dozen persons.
There was a plenty of cattle, the black natives were
always ill-nourished and hungry. The land belonged
to them. The whites had not bought it, and couldn't
buy it; for the tribes had no chiefs, nobody in
authority, nobody competent to sell and convey;
and the tribes themselves had no comprehension of
the idea of transferable ownership of land. The
ousted owners were despised by the white interlopers,
and this opinion was not hidden under a bushel.
More promising materials for a tragedy could not
have been collated. Let Mrs. Praed speak:

At Nie Nie station, one dark night, the unsuspecting hut-
keeper, having, as he believed, secured himself against assault,
was lying wrapped in his blankets sleeping profoundly. The
Blacks crept stealthily down the chimney and battered in his
skull while he slept.

One could guess the whole drama from that little
text. The curtain was up. It would not fall until
the mastership of one party or the other was deter-
mined— and permanently;

There was treachery on both sides. The Blacks killed the
Whites when they found them defenseless, and the Whites slew
the Blacks in a wholesale and promiscuous fashion which offended

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against my childish sense of justice. . . . They were regarded
as little above the level of brutes, and in some cases were destroyed
like vermin.

Here is an instance. A squatter, whose station was surrounded
by Blacks, whom he suspected to be hostile and from whom he
feared an attack, parleyed with them from his house-door. He
told them it was Christmas-time — a time at which all men,
black or white, feasted; that there were flour, sugar-plums, good
things in plenty in the store, and that he would make for them
such a pudding as they had never dreamed of — a great pudding
of which all might eat and be filled. The Blacks listened and
were lost. The pudding was made and distributed. Next
morning there was howling in the camp, for it had been sweet-
ened with sugar and arsenic!

The white man's spirit was right, but his method
was wrong. His spirit was the spirit which the
civilized white has always exhibited toward the
savage, but the use of poison was a departure from
custom. True, it was merely a technical departure,
not a real one; still, it was a departure, and there-
fore a mistake, in my opinion. It was better, kinder,
swifter, and much more humane than a number of
the methods which have been sanctified by custom,
but that does not justify its employment. That is,
it does not wholly justify it. Its unusual nature
makes it stand out and attract an amount of atten-
tion which it is not entitled to. It takes hold upon
morbid imaginations and they work it up into a
sort of exhibition of cruelty, and this smirches the
good name of our civilization, whereas one of the
old harsher methods would have had no such effect
because usage has made those methods familiar to
us and innocent. In many countries we have
chained the savage and starved him to death; and

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MARK TWAIN

this we do not care for, because custom has inured
us to it ; yet a quick death by poison is loving-kind-
ness to it. In many countries we have burned the
savage at the stake; and this we do not care for,
because custom has inured us to it; yet a quick
death is loving-kindness to it. In more than one
country we have hunted the savage and his little
children and their mother with dogs and guns
through the woods and swamps for an afternoon's
sport, and filled the region with happy laughter
over their sprawling and stumbling flight, and their
wild supplications for mercy; but this method we do
not mind, because custom has inured us to it; yet
a quick death by poison is loving-kindness to it. In
many countries we have taken the savage's land
from him, and made him our slave, and lashed him
every day, and broken his pride, and made death
his only friend, and overworked him till he dropped
in his tracks; and this we do not care for, because
custom has inured us to it; yet a quick death by
poison is loving-kindness to it. In the Matabeleland
to-day — why, there we are confining ourselves to
sanctified custom, we Rhodes-Beit millionaires in
South Africa and Dukes in London; and nobody
cares, because we are used to the old holy customs,
and all we ask is that no notice-inviting new ones
shall be intruded upon the attention of our comfort-
able consciences. Mrs. Praed says of the poisoner,
"That squatter deserves to have his name handed
down to the contempt of posterity."

I am sorry to hear her say that. I myself blame
him for one thing, and severely, but I stop there. I

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blame him for the indiscretion of introducing a nov-
elty which was calculated to attract attention to our
civilization. There was no occasion to do that. It
was his duty, and it is every loyal man's duty, to
protect that heritage in every way he can; and the
best way to do that is to attract attention elsewhere.
The squatter's judgment was bad — that is plain;
but his heart was right. He is almost the only
pioneering representative of civilization in history
who has risen above the prejudices of his caste and
his heredity and tried to introduce the element of
mercy into the superior race's dealings with the
savage. His name is lost, and it is a pity; for it
deserves to be handed down to posterity with homage
and reverence.

This paragraph is from a London journal:

To learn what France is doing to spread the blessings of
civilization in her distant dependencies we rnay turn with advan-
tage to New Caledonia. With a view to attracting free settlers
to that penal colony, M. Feillet, the Governor, forcibly expro-
priated the Kanaka cultivators from the best of their plantations,
with a derisory compensation, in spite of the protests of the
Council General of the island. Such immigrants as could be
induced to cross the seas thus found themselves in possession
of thousands of coffee, cocoa, banana, and bread-fruit trees, the
raising of which had cost the wretched natives years of toil,
whilst the latter had a few five-franc pieces to spend in the
liquor stores of Noumea.

You observe the combination? It is robbery,
humiliation, and slow, slow murder, through poverty
and the white man's whisky. The savage's gentle
friend, the savage's noble friend, the only magnani-
mous and unselfish friend the savage has ever had,

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was not there with the merciful swift release of his
poisoned pudding.

There are many humorous things in the world;
among them the white man's notion that he is less
savage than the other savages.1

■} See Chapter on Tasmania, post.

192

CHAPTER XXII

Nothing is so ignorant as a man's left hand, except a lady's watch.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

YOU notice that Mrs. Praed knows her art. She
can place a thing before you so that you can
see it. She is not alone in that. Australia is fertile
in writers whose books are faithful mirrors of the life
of the country and of its history. The materials
were surprisingly rich, both in quality and in mass,
and Marcus Clarke, Rolf Boldrewood, Gordon, Ken-
dall, and the others, have built out of them a brilliant
and vigorous literature, and one which must endure.
Materials — there is no end to them! Why, a litera-
ture might be made out of the aboriginal all by
himself, his character and ways are so freckled with
varieties — varieties not staled by familiarity, but
new to us. You do not need to invent any pic-
turesquenesses ; whatever you want in that line he
can furnish you; and they will not be fancies and
doubtful, but realities and authentic. In his his-
tory, as preserved by the white man's official records,
he is everything — everything that a human creature
can be. He covers the entire ground. He is a
coward — there are a thousand facts to prove it.
He is brave — there are a thousand facts to prove it.
He is treacherous — oh, beyond imagination! He is

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faithful, loyal, true — the white man's records supply
you with a harvest of instances of it that are noble,
worshipful, and pathetically beautiful. He kills the
starving stranger who comes begging for food and
shelter — there is proof of it. He succors, and feeds,
and guides to safety, to-day, the lost stranger who
fired on him only yesterday — there is proof of it.
He takes his reluctant bride by force, he courts her
with a club, then loves her faithfully through a long
life — it is of record. He gathers to himself another
wife by the same processes, beats and bangs her as
a daily diversion, and by and by lays down his life
in defending her from some outside harm — it is of
record. He will face a hundred hostiles to rescue
one of his children, and will kill another of his chil-
dren because the family is large enough without it.
His delicate stomach turns, at certain details of the
white man's food; but he likes over-ripe fish, and
braised dog, and cat, and rat, and will eat his own
uncle with relish. He is a sociable animal, yet he
turns aside and hides behind his shield when his
mother-in-law goes by. He is childishly afraid of
ghosts and other trivialities that menace his soul,
but dread of physical pain is a weakness which he is
not acquainted with. He knows all the great and
many of the little constellations, and has names for
them; he has a symbol-writing by means of which
he can convey messages far and wide among the
tribes ; he has a correct eye for form and expression,
and draws a good picture; he can track a fugitive
by delicate traces which the white man's eye cannot
discern, and by methods which the finest white

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intelligence cannot master; he makes a missile
which science itself cannot duplicate without the
model — if with it; a missile whose secret baffled and
defeated the searchings and theorizings of the white
mathematicians for seventy years; and by an art
all his own he performs miracles with it which the
white man cannot approach untaught, nor parallel
after teaching. Within certain limits this savage's
intellect is the alertest and the brightest known to
history or tradition; and yet the poor creature was
never able to invent a counting system that would
reach above five, nor a vessel that he could boil
water in. He is the prize-curiosity of all the races.
To all intents and purposes he is dead — in the body;
but he has features that will live in literature.

Mr. Philip Chauncy, an officer of the Victorian
Government, contributed to its archives a report of
his personal observations of the aboriginals which
has in it some things which I wish to condense
slightly and insert here. He speaks of the quick-
ness of their eyes and the accuracy of their judgment
of the direction of approaching missiles as being
quite extraordinary, and of the answering supple-
ness and accuracy of limb and muscle in avoiding
the missile as being extraordinary also. He has
seen an aboriginal stand as a target for cricket-balls
thrown with great force ten or fifteen yards, by pro-
fessional bowlers, and successfully dodge them or
parry them with his shield during about half an hour.
One of those balls, properly placed, could have killed
him; "Yet he depended, with the utmost self-pos-
session, on the quickness of his eye and his agility."

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The shield was the customary war-shield of his
race, and would not be a protection to you or to me.
It is no broader than a stovepipe, and is about as
long as a man's arm. The opposing surface is not
flat, but slopes away from the center-line like a
boat's bow. The difficulty about a cricket-ball that
has been thrown with a scientific "twist" is, that
it suddenly changes its course when it is close to its
target and comes straight for the mark when appar-
ently it was going overhead or to one side. I should
not be able to protect myself from such balls for
half an hour, or less.

Mr. Chauncy once saw "a little native man"
throw a cricket-ball one hundred and nineteen yards.
This is said to beat the English professional record
by thirteen yards.

We have all seen the circus-man bound into the
air from a spring-board and make a somersault over
eight horses standing side by side. Mr. Chauncy
saw an aboriginal do it over eleven; and was assured
that he had sometimes done it over fourteen. But
what is that to this:

I saw the same man leap from the ground, and in going over he
dipped his head, unaided by his hands, into a hat placed in an
inverted position on the top of the head of another man sitting
upright on horseback — both man and horse being of the average
size. The native landed on the other side of the horse with the
hat fairly on his head. The prodigious height of the leap, and
the precision with which it was taken so as to enable him to
dip his head into the hat, exceeded any feat of the kind I have
ever beheld.

I should think so! On board a ship lately I saw
a young Oxford athlete run jour steps and spring

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into the air and squirm his hips by a side-twist over
a bar that was five and one-half feet high; but he
could not have stood still and cleared a bar that was
four feet high. I know this, because I tried it myself.

One can see now where the kangaroo learned its
art.

Sir George Grey and Mr. Eyre testify that the
native dug wells fourteen or fifteen feet deep and
two feet in diameter at the bore — dug them in the
sand — wells that were "quite circular, carried straight
down, and the work beautifully executed."

Their tools were their hands and feet. How did
they throw sand out from such a depth? How
could they stoop down and get it, with only two
feet of space to stoop in? How did they keep that
sand-pipe from caving in on them? I do not know.
Still, they did manage those seeming impossibilities.
Swallowed the sand, maybe.

Mr. Chauncy speaks highly of the patience and
skill and alert intelligence of the native huntsman
when he is stalking the emu, the kangaroo, and
other game :

As he walks through the bush his step is light, elastic, and
noiseless; every track on the earth catches his keen eye; a leaf,
or fragment of a stick turned, or a blade of grass recently bent
by the tread of one of the lower animals, instantly arrests his
attention; in fact, nothing escapes his quick and powerful sight
on the ground, in the trees, or in the distance, which may supply
him with a meal or warn him of danger. A little examination
of the trunk of a tree which may be nearly covered with the
scratches of opossums ascending and descending is sufficient to
inform him whether one went up the night before without coming
down again or not.

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Fenimore Cooper lost his chance. He would have
known how to value these people. He wouldn't
have traded the dullest of them for the brightest
Mohawk he ever invented.

All savages draw outline pictures upon bark; but
the resemblances are not close, and expression is
usually lacking. But the Australian aboriginal's
pictures of animals were nicely accurate in form,
attitude, carriage; and he put spirit into them, and
expression. And his pictures of white people and
natives were pretty nearly as good as his pictures
of the other animals. He dressed his whites in the
fashion of their day, both the ladies and the gentle-
men. As an untaught wielder of the pencil it is not
likely that he has his equal among savage people.

His place in art — as to drawing, not color-work
— is well up, all things considered. His art is not
to be classified with savage art at all, but on a
plane two degrees above it and one degree above the
lowest plane of civilized art. To be exact, his place
in art is between Botticelli and Du Maurier. That
is to say, he could not draw as well as Du Maurier,
but better than Botticelli. In feeling, he resembles
both; also in grouping and in his preferences in the
matter of subjects. His "corrobboree" of the Aus-
tralian wilds reappears in Du Maurier's Belgravian
ballrooms, with clothes and the smirk of civilization
added; Botticelli's "Spring" is the corrobboree fur-
ther idealized, but with fewer clothes and more smirk.
And well enough as to intention, but — my word!

The aboriginal can make a fire by friction. I
have tried that.

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All savages are able to stand a good deal of physical
pain. The Australian aboriginal has this quality in
a well-developed degree. Do not read the following
instances if horrors are not pleasant to you. They
were recorded by the Rev. Henry N. Wolloston,
of Melbourne, who had been a surgeon before he
became a clergyman :

(i) In the summer of 1852 I started on horseback from Albany,
King George's Sound, to visit at Cape Riche, accompanied by
a native on foot. We traveled about forty miles the first day,
then camped by a water-hole for the night. After cooking and
eating our supper, I observed the native, who had said nothing
to me on the subject, collect the hot embers of the fire together,
and deliberately place his right foot in the glowing mass for a
moment, then suddenly withdraw it, stamping on the ground
and uttering a long-drawn guttural sound of mingled pain and
satisfaction. This operation he repeated several times. On
my inquiring the meaning of his strange conduct, he only said,
"Me carpenter-make 'em" ("I am mending my foot"), and then
showed me his charred great toe, the nail of which had been torn
off by a tea-tree stump, in which it had been caught during the
journey, and the pain of which he had borne with stoical com-
posure until the evening, when he had an opportunity of cau-
terizing the wound in the primitive manner above described.

And he proceeded on the journey the next day,
"as if nothing had happened" — and walked thirty
miles. It was a strange idea, to keep a surgeon and
then do his own surgery.

(2) A native about twenty-five years of age once applied to me,
as a doctor, to extract the wooden barb of a spear, which, during
a fight in the bush some four months previously, had entered
his chest, just missing the heart, and penetrated the viscera to
a considerable depth. The spear had been cut off, leaving the
barb behind, which continued to force its way by muscular
action gradually toward the back; and when I examined him

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I could feel a hard substance between the ribs below the left-
blade bone. I made a deep incision, and with a pair of forcepg
extracted the barb, which was made, as usual, of hard wood
about four inches long and from half an inch to an inch thick.
It was very smooth, and partly digested, so to speak, by the
maceration to which it had been exposed during its four months'
journey through the body. The wound made by the spear had
long since healed, leaving only a small cicatrix; and after the
operation, which the native bore without flinching, he appeared
to suffer no pain. Indeed, judging from his good state of health,
the presence of the foreign matter did not materially annoy
him. He was perfectly well in a few days.

But No. 3 is my favorite. Whenever I read it I
seem to enjoy all that the patient enjoyed — what-
ever it was:

(3) Once at King George's Sound a native presented himself
to me with one leg only, and requested me to supply him with
a wooden leg. He had traveled in this maimed state about
ninety-six miles, for this purpose. I examined the limb, which
had been severed just below the knee, and found that it had
been charred by fire, while about two inches of the partially
calcined bone protruded through the flesh. I at once removed
this with the saw; and having made as presentable a stump of
it as I could, covered the amputated end of the bone with a
surrounding of muscle, and kept the patient a few days under
my care to allow the wound to heal. On inquiring, the native
told me that in a fight with other black fellows a spear had struck
his leg and penetrated the bone below the knee. Finding it was
serious, he had recourse to the following crude and barbarous
operation, which it appears is not uncommon among these people
in their native state. He made a fire, and dug a hole in the earth
only sufficiently large to admit his leg, and deep enough to
allow the wounded part to be on a level with the surface of the
ground. He then surrounded the limb with the live coals or
charcoal, which was replenished until the leg was literally burnt
off. The cauterization thus applied completely checked the
hemorrhage, and he was able in a day or two to hobble down to
the Sound, with the aid of a long stout stick, although he was
.more than a week on the road.

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But he was a fastidious native. He soon dis-
carded the wooden leg made for him by the doctor,
because "it had no feeling in it." It must have had
as much as the one he burnt off, I should think.

So much for the Aboriginals. It is difficult for
me to let them alone. They are marvelously inter-
esting creatures. For a quarter of a century, now,
the several colonial governments have housed their
remnants in comfortable stations, and fed them well
and taken good care of them in every way. If I had
found this out while I was in Australia I could have
seen some of those people — but I didn't. I would
walk thirty miles to see a stuffed one.

Australia has a slang of its own. This is a matter
of course. The vast cattle and sheep industries,
the strange aspects of the country, and the strange
native animals, brute and human, are matters which
would naturally breed a local slang. I have notes of
this slang somewhere, but at the moment I can call
to mind only a few of the words and phrases. They
are expressive ones. The wide, sterile, unpeopled
deserts have created eloquent phrases like "No
Man's Land" and the "Never-never Country" —
also" this felicitous form: "She lives in the Never-
never Country" — that is, she is an old maid. And
this one is not without merit: "heifer-paddock" —
young ladies' seminary. " Bail up " and ' ' stick up ' ' —
equivalent of our highwayman- term to "hold up"
a stage-coach or a train. "New-chum" is the
equivalent of our "tenderfoot" — new arrival.

And then there is the immortal "My word!"
We must import it. "M-y word!" In cold print it

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is the equivalent of our "Ger-reat Cesar!" but spoken
with the proper Australian unction and fervency, it
is worth six of it for grace and charm and expressive-
ness. Our form is rude and explosive; it is not
suited to the drawing-room or the heifer-paddock;
but "M-y word!" is, and is music to the ear, too,
when the utterer knows how to say it. I saw it in
print several times on the Pacific Ocean, but it
struck me coldly, it aroused no sympathy. That
was because it was the dead corpse of the thing,
the soul was not there — the tones were lacking —
the informing spirit — the deep feeling — the eloquence.
But the first time I heard an Australian say it, it
was positively thrilling.

202

CHAPTER XXIII

Be careless in your dress if you must, but keep a tidy soul.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WE left Adelaide in due course, and went to
Horsham, in the colony of Victoria; a good
deal of a journey, if I remember rightly, but pleasant.
Horsham sits in a plain which is as level as a floor —
one of those famous dead levels which Australian
books describe so often; gray, bare, somber, melan-
choly, baked, cracked, in the tedious long droughts,
but a horizonless ocean of vivid green grass the
day after a rain. A country -town, peaceful, repose-
ful, inviting, full of snug homes, with garden-plots,
and plenty of shrubbery and flowers.

"Horsham, October 27. At the hotel. The weather
divine. Across the way, in front of the London
Bank of Australia, is a very handsome cottonwood.
It is in opulent leaf, and every leaf perfect. The
full power of the on-rushing spring is upon it, and
I imagine I can see it grow. Alongside the bank
and a little way back in the garden there is a row
of soaring fountain-sprays of delicate feathery foliage
quivering in the breeze, and mottled with flashes of
light that shift and play through the mass like
flashlights through an opal — a most beautiful tree,
and a striking contrast to the cottonwood. Every

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leaf of the cottonwood is distinctly defined — it is
a kodak for faithful, hard, unsentimental detail;
the other an impressionist picture, delicious to look
upon, full of a subtle and exquisite charm, but all
details fused in a swoon of vague and soft loveliness."

It turned out, upon inquiry, to be a pepper tree
— an importation from China. It has a silky sheen,
soft and rich. I saw some that had long red bunches
of currantlike berries ambushed among the foliage.
At a distance, in certain lights, they give the tree a
pinkish tint and a new charm.

There is an agricultural college eight miles from
Horsham. We were driven out to it by its chief.
The conveyance was an open wagon; the time,
noonday; no wind; the sky without a cloud, the
sunshine brilliant — and the mercury at ninety-two
degrees in the shade. In some countries an indolent
unsheltered drive of an hour and a half under such
conditions would have been a sweltering and pros-
trating experience; but there was nothing of that in
this case. It is a climate that is perfect. There
was no sense of heat; indeed, there was no heat;
the air was fine and pure and exhilarating; if the
drive had lasted half a day I think we should not
have felt any discomfort, or grown silent or droopy
or tired. Of course, the secret of it was the exceeding
dryness of the atmosphere. In that plain one hun-
dred and twelve degrees in the shade is without doubt
no harder upon a man than is eighty-eight degrees or
ninety degrees in New York.

The road lay through the middle of an empty space
which seemed to me to be a hundred yards wide be-

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tween the fences. I was not given the width in yards,
but only in chains and perches — and furlongs, I
think. I would have given a good deal to know
what the width was, but I did not pursue the matter.
1 think it is best to put up with information the
way you get it; and seem satisfied with it, and
surprised at it, and grateful for it, and say, "My
word!" and never let on. It was a wide space; I
could tell you how wide, in chains and perches and
furlongs and things, but that would not help you
any. Those things sound well, but they are shadowy
and indefinite, like troy weight and avoirdupois;
nobody knows what they mean. When you buy a
pound of a drug and the man asks you which you
want, troy or avoirdupois, it is best to say "Yes,"
and shift the subject.

They said that the wide space dates from the
earliest sheep and cattle raising days. People had
to drive their stock long distances — immense jour-
neys— from worn-out places to new ones where were
water and fresh pasturage; and this wide space had
to be left in grass and unfenced, or the stock would
have starved to death in the transit.

On the way we saw the usual birds — the beautiful
little green parrots, the magpie, and some others;
and also the slender native bird of modest plumage
and the eternally forgettable name — the bird that is
the smartest among birds, and can give a parrot
thirty to one in the game and then talk him to death.
I cannot recall that bird's name. I think it begins
with M. I wish it began with G, or something that
a person can remember.

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The magpie was out in great force, in the fields
and on the fences. He is a handsome large creature,
with snowy white decorations, and is a singer; he has
a murmurous rich note that is lovely. He was once
modest, even diffident; but he lost all that when tie
found out that he was Australia's sole musical bird.
He has talent, and cuteness, and impudence; and in
his tame state he is a most satisfactory pet — never
coming when he is called, always coming when he
isn't, and studying disobedience as an accomplish-
ment. He is not confined, but loafs all over the
house and grounds, like the laughing jackass. I
think he learns to talk, I know he learns to sing
tunes, and his friends say that he knows how to steal
without learning. I was acquainted with a tame
magpie in Melbourne. He had lived in a lady's
house several years, and believed he owned it. The
lady had tamed him, and in return he had tamed the
lady. He was always on deck when not wanted,
always having his own way, always tyrannizing over
the dog, and always making the cat's life a slow sor-
row and a martyrdom. He knew a number of tunes
and could sing them in perfect time and tune; and
would do it, too, at any time that silence was wanted;
and then encore himself and do it again; but if he
was asked to sing he would go out and take a walk.

It was long believed that fruit trees would not
grow in that baked and waterless plain around
Horsham, but the agricultural college has dissipated
that idea. Its ample nurseries were producing
oranges, apricots, lemons, almonds, peaches, cherries,
forty-eight varieties of apples — in fact, all manner of

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fruits, and in abundance. The trees did not seem
to miss the water; they were in vigorous and flour-
ishing condition.

Experiments are made with different soils, to see
what things thrive best in them and what climates
are best for them. A man who is ignorantly trying
to produce upon his farm things not suited to its soil
and its other conditions can make a journey to the
college from anywhere in Australia, and go back
with a change of scheme which will make his farm
productive and profitable.

There were forty pupils there — a few of them
farmers, relearning their trade, the rest young men
mainly from the cities — novices. It seemed a strange
thing that an agricultural college should have an
attraction for city-bred youths, but such is the fact.
They are good stuff, too; they are above the agri-
cultural average of intelligence, and they come
without any inherited prejudices in favor of hoary
ignorances made sacred by long descent.

The students work all day in the fields, the nur-
series, and the shearing-sheds, learning and doing all
the practical work of the business — three days in a
week. On the other three they study and hear
lectures. They are taught the beginnings of such
sciences as bear upon agriculture — like chemistry,
for instance. We saw the sophomore class in sheep-
shearing shear a dozen sheep. They did it by hand,
not with a machine. The sheep was seized and
flung down on his side and held there; and the
students took off his coat with great celerity and
adroitness. Sometimes they clipped off a sample of

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the sheep, but that is customary with shearers, and
they don't mind it ; they don't even mind it as much
as the sheep. They dab a splotch of sheep-dip on
the place and go right ahead.

The coat of wool was unbelievably thick. Before
the shearing the sheep looked like the fat woman in
the circus; after it he looked like a bench. He was
clipped to the skin; and smoothly and uniformly.
The fleece comes from him all in one piece and has
the spread of a blanket.

The college was flying the Australian flag — the
gridiron of England smuggled up in the northwest
corner of a big red field that had the random stars of
the Southern Cross wandering around over it.

From Horsham we went to Stawell. By rail. Still
in the colony of Victoria. Stawell is in the gold-
mining country. In the bank-safe was half a peck
of surface gold — gold dust, grain gold; rich; pure
in fact, and pleasant to sift through one's fingers;
and would be pleasanter if it would stick. And
there were a couple of gold bricks, very heavy to
handle, and worth seventy-five hundred dollars
apiece. They were from a very valuable quartz-
mine; a lady owns two- thirds of it ; she has an income
of seventy-five thousand dollars a month from it,
and is able to keep house.

The Stawell region is not productive of gold only;
it has great vineyards, and produces exceptionally
fine wines. One of these vineyards — the Great
Western, owned by Mr. Irving — is regarded as a
model. Its product has reputation abroad. It
yields a choice champagne and a fine claret, and its'

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hock took a prize in France two or three years ago.
The champagne is kept in a maze of passages under-
ground, cut in the rock, to secure it an even tempera-
ture during the three-year term required to perfect
it. In those vaults I saw 120,000 bottles of cham-
pagne. The colony of Victoria has a population of
1,000,000, and those people are said to drink
25,000,000 bottles of champagne per year. The
driest community on the earth. The government
has lately reduced the duty upon foreign wines.
That is one of the unkindnesses of Protection. A
man invests years of work and a vast sum of money
in a worthy enterprise, upon the faith of existing
laws; then the law is changed, and the man is robbed
by his own government.

On the way back to Stawell we had a chance to
see a group of boulders called the Three Sisters — a
curiosity oddly located; for it was upon high ground,
with the land sloping away from it, and no height
above it from whence the boulders could have rolled
down. Relics of an early ice-drift, perhaps. They
are noble boulders. One of them has the size and
smoothness and plump sphericity of a balloon of the
biggest pattern. The road led through a forest of
great gum trees, lean and scraggy and sorrowful.
The road was cream-white — a clayey kind of earth,
apparently.

Along it toiled occasional freight -wagons, drawn
by long double files of oxen. Those wagons were
going a journey of two hundred miles, I was told, and
were running a successful opposition to the railway!
The railways are owned and run by the government,

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Those sad gums stood up out of the dry white
clay, pictures of patience and resignation. It i3 a
tree that can get along without water; still it is fond
of it — ravenously so. It is a very intelligent tree
and will detect the presence of hidden water at a
distance of fifty feet, and send out slender long
root-fibers to prospect it. They will find it; and
will also get at it — even through a cement wall six
inches thick. Once a cement water-pipe under-
ground at Stawell began to gradually reduce its out-
put, and finally ceased altogether to deliver water.
Upon examining into the matter it was found stopped
up, wadded compactly with a mass of root fibers,
delicate and hairlike. How this stuff had gotten
into the pipe was a puzzle for some little time;
finally it was found that it had crept in through a
crack that was almost invisible to the eye. A gum
tree forty feet away had tapped the pipe and was
drinking the water.

210

CHAPTER XXIV

There is no such thing as "the Queen's English." The property has gone into
the hands of a joint stock company and we own the bulk of the shares!

— Pudd'nkead Wilson's New Calendar.

FREQUENTLY, in Australia, one has cloud-effects
of an unfamiliar sort. We had this kind of sce-
nery, finely staged, all the way to Ballarat. Con-
sequently we saw more sky than country on that
journey. At one time a great stretch of the vault
was densely flecked with wee ragged-edged flakes of
painfully white cloud-stuff, all of one shape and size,
and equidistant apart, with narrow cracks of adorable
blue showing between. The whole was suggestive of
a hurricane of snowflakes drifting across the skies.
By and by these flakes fused themselves together in
interminable lines, with shady faint hollows between
the lines, the long satin-surfaced rollers following
each other in simulated movement, and enchant-
ingly counterfeiting the majestic march of a flowing
sea. Later, the sea solidified itself; then gradually
broke up its mass into innumerable lofty white pillars
of about one size, and ranged these across the firma-
ment, in receding and fading perspective, in the si-
militude of a stupendous colonnade — a mirage
without a doubt flung from the far Gates of the
Hereafter.
The approaches to Ballarat were beautiful. The

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features, great green expanses of rolling pasture-
land, bisected by eye-contenting hedges of commin-
gled new-gold and old-gold gorse — and a lovely lake.
One must put in the pause, there, to fetch the reader
up with a slight jolt, and keep him from gliding by
without noticing the lake. One must notice it; for
a lovely lake is not as common a thing along the
railways of Australia as are the dry places. Ninety-
two in the shade again, but balmy and comfortable,
fresh and bracing. A perfect climate.

Forty-five years ago the site now occupied by the
city of Ballarat was a sylvan solitude as quiet as
Eden and as lovely. Nobody had ever heard of it.
On the 25th of August, 1851, the first great gold-
strike made in Australia was made here. The wan-
dering prospectors who made it scraped up two
pounds and a half of gold the first day — worth six
hundred dollars. A few days later the place was a
hive — a town. The news of the strike spread every-
where in a sort of instantaneous way — spread like a
flash to the very ends of the earth. A celebrity so
prompt and so universal has hardly been paralleled
in history, perhaps. It was as if the name BAL-
LARAT had suddenly been written on the sky,
where all the world could read it at once.

The smaller discoveries made in the colony of New
South Wales three months before had already started
emigrants toward Australia; they had been coming
as a stream, but they came as a flood, now. A
hundred thousand people poured into Melbourne
from England and other countries in a single month,
and flocked away to the mines. The crews of the

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ships that brought them flocked with them; the
clerks in the government offices followed ; so did the
cooks, the maids, the coachmen, the butlers, and
the other domestic servants; so did the carpenters,
the smiths, the plumbers, the painters, the reporters,
the editors, the lawyers, the clients, the barkeepers,
the bummers, the blacklegs, the thieves, the loose
women, the grocers, the butchers, the bakers, the
doctors, the druggists, the nurses; so did the police;
even officials of high and hitherto envied place threw
up their positions and joined the procession. This
roaring avalanche swept out of Melbourne and left it
desolate, Sunday-like, paralyzed, everything at a
standstill, the ships lying idle at anchor, all signs of
life departed, all sounds stilled save the rasping of
the cloud-shadows as they scraped across the vacant
streets.

That grassy and leafy paradise at Ballarat was soon
ripped open, and lacerated and scarified and gutted,
in the feverish search for its hidden riches. There
is nothing like surface-mining to snatch the graces
and beauties and benignities out of a paradise, and
make an odious and repulsive spectacle of it.

What fortunes were made! Immigrants got rich
while the ship unloaded and reloaded — and went
back home for good in the same cabin they had
come out in! Not all of them. Only some. I saw
the others in Ballarat myself, forty-five years later
— what were left of them by time and death and the
disposition to rove. They were young and gay, then;
they are patriarchal and grave, now; and they do
not get excited any more. They talk of the Past.

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MARK TWAIN

They live in it. Their life is a dream, a retro-
spection.

Ballarat was a great region for "nuggets." No
such nuggets were found in California as Ballarat
produced. In fact, the Ballarat region has yielded
the largest ones known to history. Two of them
weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds each,
and together were worth ninety thousand dollars.
They were offered to any poor person who would
shoulder them and carry them away. Gold was so
plentiful that it made people liberal like that.

Ballarat was a swarming city of tents in the early
days. Everybody was happy, for a time, and appar-
ently prosperous. Then came trouble. The govern-
ment swooped down with a mining tax. And in its
worst form, too; for it was not a tax upon what the
miner had taken out, but upon what he was going
to take out — if he could find it. It was a license
tax — license to work his claim — and it had to be
paid before he could begin digging.

Consider the situation. No business is so uncer-
tain as surface-mining. Your claim may be good,
and it may be worthless. It may make you well off
in a month; and then again you may have to dig
and slave for half a year, at heavy expense, only to
find out at last that the gold is not there in cost-pay-
ing quantity, and that your time and your hard work
have been thrown away. It might be wise policy to
advance the miner a monthly sum to encourage him
to develop the country's riches; but to tax him
monthly in advance instead — why, such a thing was
never dreamed of in America. There, neither the

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claim itself nor its products, howsoever rich or poor,
were taxed.

The Ballarat miners protested, petitioned, com-
plained— it was of no use; the government held its
ground, and went on collecting the tax. And not
by pleasant methods, but by ways which must have
been very galling to free people. The rumblings of
a coming storm began to be audible.

By and by there was a result ; and I think it may
be called the finest thing in Australasian history. It
was a revolution — small in size, but great politically ;
it was a strike for liberty, a struggle for a principle,
a stand against injustice and oppression. It was the
Barons and John, over again; it was Hampden and
Ship-Money; it was Concord and Lexington; small
beginnings, all of them, but all of them great in
political results, all of them epoch-making. It is
another instance of a victory won by a lost battle.
It adds an honorable page to history; the people
know it and are proud of it. They keep green the
memory of the men who fell at the Eureka Stockade,
and Peter Lalor has his monument.

The surface-soil of Ballarat was full of gold.
This soil the miners ripped and tore and trenched
and harried and disemboweled, and made it yield up
its immense treasure. Then they went down into
the earth with deep shafts, seeking the gravelly beds
of ancient rivers and brooks — and found them. They
followed the courses of these streams, and gutted
them, sending the gravel up in buckets to the upper
world, and washing out of it its enormous deposits
of gold. The next biggest of the two monster nug-

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MARK TWAIN

gets mentioned above came from an old river-
channel one hundred and eighty feet under ground.

Finally the quartz lodes were attacked. That is
not poor man's mining. Quartz mining andmilling
require capital, and staying-power, and patience.
Big companies were formed, and for several decades,
now, the lodes have been successfully worked, and
have yielded great wealth. Since the gold discovery
in 1851 the Ballarat mines — taking the three kinds
of mining together — have contributed to the world's
pocket something over three hundred millions of dol-
lars, which is to say that this nearly invisible little
spot on the earth's surface has yielded about one-
fourth as much gold in forty-four years as all Cali-
fornia has yielded in forty-seven. The Californian
aggregate, from 1848 to 1895, inclusive, as reported
by the Statistician of the United States Mint, is
$1,265,217,217.

A citizen told me a curious thing about those
mines. With all my experience of mining I had
never heard of anything of the sort before. The
main gold reef runs about north and south — of
course — for that is the custom of a rich gold reef.
At Ballarat its course is between walls of slate.
Now the citizen told me that throughout a stretch
of twelve miles along the reef, the reef is crossed at
intervals by a straight black streak of a carbona-
ceous nature — a streak in the slate; a streak no
thicker than a pencil — and that wherever it crosses
the reef you will certainly find gold at the junction.
It is called the Indicator. Thirty feet on each side
of the Indicator (and down in the slate, of course) is

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a still finer streak — a streak as fine as a pencil-mark;
and indeed, that is its name — Pencil Mark. When-
ever you find the Pencil Mark you know that thirty
feet from it is the Indicator; you measure the dis-
tance, excavate, find the Indicator, trace it straight
to the reef, and sink your shaft; your fortune is
made, for certain. If that is true, it is curious. And
it is curious anyway.

Ballarat is a town of only forty thousand popula-
tion; and yet, since it is in Australia, it has every
essential of an advanced and enlightened big city.
This is pure matter of course. I must stop dwelling
upon these things. It is hard to keep from dwelling
upon them, though; for it is difficult to get away from
the surprise of it. I will let the other details go,
this time, but I must allow myself to mention that
this little town has a park of three hundred and
twenty-six acres; a flower-garden of eighty-three
acres, with an elaborate and expensive fernery in
it and some costly and unusually fine statuary; and
an artificial lake covering six hundred acres, equipped
with a fleet of two hundred shells, small sailboats,
and little steam-yachts.

At this point I strike out some other praiseful
things which I was tempted to add. I do not strike
them out because they were not true or not well said,
but because I find them better said by another man —
and a man more competent to testify, too, because
he belongs on the ground, and knows. I clip them
from a chatty speech delivered some years ago by
Mr. William Little, who was at that time mayor
of Ballarat:

21J

MARK TWAIN

The language of our citizens, in this as in other parts of
Australasia, is mostly healthy Anglo-Saxon, free from American-
isms, vulgarisms, and the conflicting dialects of our Fatherland,
and is pure enough to suit a Trench or a Latham. Our youth,
aided by climatic influence, are in point of physique and comeli-
ness unsurpassed in the Sunny South. Our young men are
well ordered; and our maidens, "not stepping over the bounds
of modesty," are as fair as Psyches, dispensing smiles as charming
as November flowers.

The closing clause has the seeming of a rather
frosty compliment, but that is apparent only, not
real. November is summer-time there. His com-
pliment to the local purity of the language is war-
ranted. It is quite free from impurities; this is
acknowledged far and wide. As in the German
Empire all cultivated people claim to speak Hano-
verian German, so in Australasia all cultivated people
claim to speak Ballarat English. Even in England
this cult has made considerable progress, and now
that it is favored by the two great Universities, the
time is not far away when Ballarat English will
come into general use among the educated classes of
Great Britain at large. Its great merit is, that it is
shorter than ordinary English — that is, it is more
compressed. At first you have some difficulty in
understanding it when it is spoken as rapidly as the
orator whom I have quoted speaks it. An illustra-
tion will show what I mean. When he called and
I handed him a chair, he bowed and said :

"Q."

Presently, when we were lighting our cigars, he
held a match to mine and I said;
"Thank you," and he said:

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

"Km."

Then I saw. Q is the end of the phrase ' ' I thank
you." Km is the end of the phrase "You are wel-
come." Mr. Little puts no emphasis upon either of
them, but delivers them so reduced that they hardly
have a sound. All Ballarat English is like that, and
the effect is very soft and pleasant; it takes all the
hardness and harshness out of our tongue and gives
to it a delicate whispery and vanishing cadence which
charms the ear like the faint rustling of the forest
leaves.

219

Vol. 15 H— M. T.

CHAPTER XXV

"Classic." A book which people praise and don't read.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

ON the rail again — bound for Bendigo. From
diary:

October 23. Got up at six, left at seven-thirty;
soon reached Castlemaine, one of the rich gold-fields
of the early days; waited several hours for a train;
left at three-forty and reached Bendigo in an hour.
For comrade, a Catholic priest who was better than
I was, but didn't seem to know it — a man full of
graces of the heart, the mind, and the spirit; a
lovable man. He will rise. He will be a Bishop
some day. Later an Archbishop. Later a Cardinal.
Finally an Archangel, I hope. And then he will
recall me when I say, "Do you remember that trip
we made from Ballarat to Bendigo, when you were
nothing but Father C, and I was nothing to what I
am now?" It has actually taken nine hours to
come from Ballarat to Bendigo. We could have
saved seven by walking. However, there was no
hurry.

Bendigo was another of the rich strikes of the
early days. It does a great quartz-mining business,
now — that business which, more than any other
that I know of, teaches patience, and requires grit

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and a steady nerve. The town is full of towering
chimney-stacks and hoisting-works, and looks like a
petroleum-city. Speaking of patience; for example,
one of the local companies went steadily on with its
deep borings and searchings without show of gold
or a penny of reward for eleven years — then struck it,
and became suddenly rich. The eleven years' work
had cost fifty-five thousand dollars, and the first
gold found was a grain the size of a pin's head. It
is kept under locks and bars, as a precious thing,
and is reverently shown to the visitor, "hats off."
When I saw it I had not heard its history.

"It is gold. Examine it — take the glass. Now
how much should you say it is worth?"

I said:

"I should say about two cents; or in your English
dialect, four farthings."

"Well, it cost eleven thousand pounds."

"Oh, come!"

"Yes, it did. Ballarat and Bendigo have pro-
duced the three monumental nuggets of the world,
and this one is the monumentalest one of the three.
The other two represent nine thousand pounds
apiece; this one a couple of thousand more. It is
small, and not much to look at, but it is entitled to
its name — Adam. It is the Adam-nugget of this
mine, and its children run up into the millions."

Speaking of patience again, another of the mines
was worked, under heavy expenses, during seventeen
years before pay was struck, and still another one
compelled a wait of twenty- one years before pay
was struck; then, in both instances, the outlay

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MARK TWAIN

was all back in a year or two, with compound in-
terest.

Bendigo has turned out even more gold than
Ballarat. The two together have produced six hun-
dred and fifty million dollars' worth — which is half
as much as California produced.

It was through Mr. Blank — not to go into par-
ticulars about his name — it was mainly through Mr.
Blank that my stay in Bendigo was made memorably
pleasant and interesting. He explained this to me
himself. He told me that it was through his influ-
ence that the city government invited me to the town-
hall to hear complimentary speeches and respond to
them; that it was through his influence that I had
been taken on a long pleasure drive through the city
and shown its notable features; that it was through
his influence that I was invited to visit the great
mines; that it was through his influence that I was
taken to the hospital and allowed to see the con-
valescent Chinaman who had been attacked at mid-
night in his lonely hut eight weoks before by robbers,
and stabbed forty-six times and scalped besides;
that it was through his influence that when I arrived
this awful spectacle of piecings and patchings and
bandagings was sitting up in his cot letting on to
read one of my books; that it was through his
influence that efforts had been made to get the
Catholic Archbishop of Bendigo to invite me to
dinner; that it was through his influence that efforts
had been made to get the Anglican Bishop of Bendigo
to ask me to supper ; that it was through his influence
that the dean of the editorial fraternity had driven

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me through the woodsy outlying country and shown
me, from the summit of Lone Tree Hill, the mightiest
and loveliest expanse of forest-clad mountain and
valley that I had seen in all Australia. And when
he asked me what had most impressed me in Bendigo
and I answered and said it was the taste and the
public spirit which had adorned the streets with
one hundred and five miles of shade trees, he said that
it was through his influence that it had been done.

But I am not representing him quite correctly.
He did not say it was through his influence that all
these things had happened — for that would have
been coarse; he merely conveyed that idea; con-
veyed it so subtly that I only caught it fleetingly, as
one catches vagrant faint breaths of perfume when
one traverses the meadows in summer; conveyed it
without offense and without any suggestion of ego-
ism or ostentation — but conveyed it, nevertheless.

He was an Irishman; an educated gentleman;
grave, and kindly, and courteous; a bachelor, and
about forty-five or possibly fifty years old, appar-
ently. He called upon me at the hotel, and it was
there that we had this talk. He made me like him,
and did it without trouble. This was partly through
his winning and gentle ways, but mainly through
the amazing familiarity with my books which his
conversation showed. He wTas down to date with
them, too; and if he had made them the study of
his life he could hardly have been better posted as
to their contents than he was. He made me better
satisfied with myself than I had ever been before.
It was plain that he had a deep fondness for humor,

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MARK TWAIN

yet he never laughed; he never even chuckled; in
fact, humor could not win to outward expression on
his face at all. No, he was always grave, — tenderly,
pensively grave; but he made me laugh, all along;
and this was very trying — and very pleasant at the
same time — for it was at quotations from my own
books.

When he was going, he turned and said:

"You don't remember me?"

"I? Why, no. Have we met before?"

"No, it was a matter of correspondence."

1 ' Correspondence ? ' '

"Yes, many years ago. Twelve or fifteen. Oh,
longer than that. But of course you — " A musing
pause. Then he said :

"Do you remember Corrigan Castle?"

"N — no, I believe I don't. I don't seem to recall
the name."

He waited a moment, pondering, with the door-
knob in his hand, then started out ; but turned back
and said that I had once been interested in Corrigan
Castle, and asked me if I would go with him to his
quarters in the evening and take a hot Scotch and
talk it over. I was a teetotaler and liked relaxation,
so I said I would.

We drove from the lecture-hall together about
half past ten. He had a most comfortably and taste-
fully furnished parlor, with good pictures on the
walls, Indian and Japanese ornaments on the mantel,
and here and there, and books everywhere — largely
mine; which made me proud. The light was bril-
liant, the easy -chairs were deep-cushioned, the

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

arrangements for brewing and smoking were all
there. We brewed and lit up; then he passed a
sheet of note-paper to me and said :

"Do you remember that?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!"

The paper was of a sumptuous quality. At the top
was a twisted and interlaced monogram printed from
steel dies in gold and blue and red, in the ornate
English fashion of long years ago; and under it, in
neat gothic capitals, was this — printed in blue :

The Mark Twain Club
corrigan castle

187

"My!" said I, "how did you come by this?"

"I was President of it."

"No! — you don't mean it."

"It is true. I was its first President. I was re-
elected annually as long as its meetings were held in
my castle — Corrigan — which was five years."

Then he showed me an album with twenty-three
photographs of me in it. Five of them were of old
dates, the others of various later crops ; the list closed
with a picture taken by Falk in Sydney a month
before.

"You sent us the first five; the rest were bought."

This was paradise! We ran late, and talked,
talked, talked — subject, the Mark Twain Club of
Corrigan Castle, Ireland.

My first knowledge of that Club dates away back;
all of twenty years, I should say. It came to me in
the form of a courteous letter, written on the note-

225

MARK TWAIN

paper which I have described, and signed "By order
of the President; C. Pembroke, Secretary." It
conveyed the fact that the Club had been created
in my honor, and added the hope that this token of
appreciation of my work would meet with my
approval.

I answered, with thanks; and did what I could to
keep my gratification from over-exposure.

It was then that the long correspondence began.
A letter came back, by order of the President, fur-
nishing me the names of the members — thirty-two
in number. With it came a copy of the Constitution
and By-Laws, in pamphlet form, and artistically
printed. The initiation fee and dues were in their
proper place ; also, schedule of meetings — monthly —
for essays upon works of mine, followed by discus-
sions; quarterly for business and a supper, without
essays, but with after-supper speeches; also there
was a list of the officers: President, Vice-President,
Secretary, Treasurer, etc. The letter was brief, but
it was pleasant reading, for it told me about the
strong interest which the membership took in their
new venture, etc., etc. It also asked me for a photo-
graph— a special one. I went down and sat for it
and sent it — with a letter, of course.

Presently came the badge of the Club, and very
dainty and pretty it was; and very artistic. It was
a frog peeping out from a graceful tangle of grass-
sprays and rushes, and was done in enamels on a
gold basis, and had a gold pin back of it. After I
had petted it, and played with it, and caressed it,
and enjoyed it a couple of hours, the light happened

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to fall upon it at a new angle, and revealed to me a
cunning new detail ; with the light just right, certain
delicate shadings of the grass-blades and rush-stems
wove themselves into a monogram — mine ! You can
see that that jewel was a work of art. And when
you come to consider the intrinsic value of it, you
must concede that it is not every literary club that
could afford a badge like that. It was easily worth
seventy-five dollars, in the opinion of Messrs. [Marcus
and Ward of New York. They said they could not
duplicate it for that and make a profit.

By this time the Club was well under way; and
from that time forth its secretary kept my off -hours
well supplied with business. He reported the Club's
discussions of my books with laborious fullness, and
did his work with great spirit and ability. As a rule,
he synopsized; but when a speech was especially
brilliant, he short-handed it and gave me the best
passages from it, written out. There were five
speakers whom he particularly favored in that way:
Palmer, Forbes, Naylor, Norris, and Calder. Palmer
and Forbes could never get through a speech without
attacking each other, and each in his own way was
formidably effective — Palmer in virile and eloquent
abuse, Forbes in courtly and elegant but scalding
satire. I could always tell which of them was talking
without looking for his name. Naylor had a polished
style and a happy knack at felicitous metaphor;
Norris's style was wholly without ornament, but
enviably compact, lucid, and strong. But after all,
Calder was the gem. He never spoke when sober,
he spoke continuously when he wasn't. And cer-

227

MARK TWAIN

tainly they were the drunkest speeches that a man
ever uttered. They were full of good things, but
so incredibly mixed up and wandering that it made
one's head swim to follow him. They were not
intended to be funny, but they were — funny for the
very gravity which the speaker put into his flowing
miracles of incongruity. In the course of five years
I came to know the styles of the five orators as well
as I knew the style of any speaker in my own club
at home.

These reports came every month. They were
written on foolscap, six hundred words to the page,
and usually about twenty-five pages in a report — a
good fifteen thousand words, I should say — a solid
week's work. The reports were absorbingly enter-
taining, long as they were; but, unfortunately for
me, they did not come alone. They were always
accompanied by a lot of questions about passages
and purposes in my books, which the Club wanted
answered ; and additionally accompanied every quar-
ter by the Treasurer's report, and the Auditor's
report, and the Committee's report, and the Presi-
dent's review, and my opinion of these was always
desired; also suggestions for the good of the Club
if any occurred to me.

By and by I came to dread those things; and this
dread grew and grew and grew; grew until I got to
anticipating them with a cold horror. For I was an
indolent man, and not fond of letter-writing, and
whenever these things came I had to put everything
by and sit down — for my own peace of mind — and
dig and dig until I got something out of my head

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which would answer for a reply. I got along fairly-
well the first year ; but for the succeeding four years
the Mark Twain Club of Corrigan Castle was my
curse, my nightmare, the grief and misery of my
life. And I got so, so sick of sitting for photo*
graphs. I sat every year for five years, trying to
satisfy that insatiable organization. Then at last I
rose in revolt. I could endure my oppressions no
longer. I pulled my fortitude together and tore off
my chains, and was a free man again, and happy.
From that day I burned the Secretary's fat envelopes
the moment they arrived, and by and by they ceased
to come.

Well, in the sociable frankness of that night in
Bendigo I brought this all out in full confession.
Then Mr. Blank came out in the same frank way,
and with a preliminary word of gentle apology said
that he was the Mark Twain Club, and the only
member it had ever had!

Why, it was matter for anger, but I didn't feel
any. He said he never had to work for a living,
and that by the time he was thirty life had become a
bore and a weariness to him. He had no interests
left; they had paled and perished, one by one, and
left him desolate. He had begun to think of suicide.
Then all of a sudden he thought of that happy idea
of starting an imaginary club, and went straightway
to work at it, with enthusiasm and love. He was
charmed with it; it gave him something to do. It
elaborated itself on his hands; it became twenty
times more complex and formidable than was his
first rude draft of it. Every new addition to his

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MARK TWAIN

original plan which cropped up in his mind gave
him a fresh interest and a new pleasure. He de-
signed the Club badge himself, and worked over it,
altering and improving it, a number of days and
nights; then sent to London and had it made. It
was the only one that was made. It was made for
me; the "rest of the Club" went without.

He invented the thirty-two members and their
names. He invented the five favorite speakers
and their five separate styles. He invented their
speeches, and reported them himself. He would
have kept that Club going until now, if I hadn't
deserted, he said. He said he worked like a slave
over those reports; each of them cost him from a
week to a fortnight's work, and the work gave him
pleasure and kept him alive and willing to be alive.
It was a bitter blow to him when the Club died.

Finally, there wasn't any Corrigan Castle. He
had invented that, too.

It was wonderful — the whole thing; and alto-
gether the most ingenious and laborious and cheerful
and painstaking practical joke I have ever heard of.
And I liked it; liked to hear him tell about it; yet
I have been a hater of practical jokes from as long
back as I can remember. Finally he said :

"Do you remember a note from Melbourne four-
teen or fifteen years ago, telling about your lecture
tour in Australia, and your death and burial in Mel-
bourne?— a note from Henry Bascom, of Bascom
Hall, Upper Holywell, Hants."

"Yes."

"I wrote it."

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

"M-y— word!"

"Yes, I did it. I don't know why. I just took
the notion, and carried it out without stopping to
think. It was wrong. It could have done harm.
I was always sorry about it afterward. You must
forgive me. I was Mr. Bascom's guest on his
yacht, on his voyage around the world. He often
spoke of you, and of the pleasant times you had
had together in his home; and the notion took me,
there in Melbourne, and I imitated his hand, and
wrote the letter."

So the mystery was cleared up, after so many,
many years.

231

CHAPTER XXVI

There are people who can do all fine and heroic things but one: keep from
telling their happinesses to the unhappy. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

AFTER visits to Maryborough and some other
l Australian towns, we presently took passage
for New Zealand. If it would not look too much
like showing off, I would tell the reader where New
Zealand is; for he is as I was: he thinks he knows.
And he thinks he knows where Herzegovina is ; and
how to pronounce pariah; and how to use the word
unique without exposing himself to the derision of
the dictionary. But in truth, he knows none of these
things. There are but four or five people in the
world who possess this knowledge, and these make
their living out of it. They travel from place
to place, visiting literary assemblages, geographical
societies, and seats of learning, and springing sudden
bets that these people do not know these things.
Since all people think they know them, they are an
easy prey to these adventurers. Or rather they
were an easy prey until the law interfered three
months ago, and a New York court decided that this
kind of gambling is illegal, "because it traverses
Article IV, Section 9, of the Constitution of the
United States, which forbids betting on a sure
thing." This decision was rendered by the full

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Bench of the New York Supreme Court, after a test
sprung upon the court by counsel for the prosecution,
which showed that none of the nine Judges was
able to answer any of the four questions.

All people think that New Zealand is close to
Australia or Asia, or somewhere, and that you cross
to it on a bridge. But that is not so. It is not
close to anything, but lies by itself, out in the water.
It is nearest to Australia, but still not near. The
gap between is very wide. It will be a surprise
to the reader, as it was to me, to learn that the dis-
tance from Australia to New Zealand is really twelve
or thirteen hundred miles, and that there is no
bridge. I learned this from Professor X., of Yale
University, whom I met in the steamer on the great
lakes when I was crossing the continent to sail across
the Pacific. I asked him about New Zealand, in
order to make conversation. I supposed he would
generalize a little without compromising himself,
and then turn the subject to something he was
acquainted with, and my object would then be
attained : the ice would be broken, and we could go
smoothly on, and get acquainted, and have a pleasant
time. But, to my surprise, he was not only not
embarrassed by my question, but seemed to welcome
it, and to take a distinct interest in it. He began
to talk — fluently, confidently, comfortably: and as
he talked, my admiration grew and grew; for as the
subject developed under his hands, I saw that he
not only knew where New Zealand was, but that he
was minutely familiar with every detail of its history,
politics, religions, and commerce, its fauna, flora,

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MARK TWAIN

geology, products, and climatic peculiarities. Wher.
he was done, I was lost in wonder and admiration,
and said to myself, he knows everything; in the
domain of human knowledge he is king.

I wanted to see him do more miracles; and so,
just for the pleasure of hearing him answer, I asked
him about Herzegovina, and pariah, and unique.
But he began to generalize then, and show distress.
I saw that with New Zealand gone, he was a Samson
shorn of his locks; he was as other men. This was
a curious and interesting mystery, and I was frank
with him, and asked him to explain it.

He tried to avoid it at first ; but then laughed and
said that, after all, the matter was not worth conceal-
ment, so he would let me into the secret. In sub-
stance, this is his story:

Last autumn I was at work one morning at home, when a card
came up — the card of a stranger. Under the name was printed
a line which showed that this visitor was Professor of Theological
Engineering in Wellington University, New Zealand. I was
troubled — troubled, I mean, by the shortness of the notice.
College etiquette required that he be at once invited to dinner
by some member of the Faculty — invited to dine on that day —
not put off till a subsequent day. I did not quite know what to
do. College etiquette requires, in the case of a foreign guest,
that the dinner-talk shall begin with complimentary references
to his country, its great men, its services to civilization, its seats
of learning, and things like that; and of course the host is
responsible, and must either begin this talk himself or see that
it is done by some one else. I was in great difficulty; and the
more I searched my memory, the more my trouble grew. I
found that I knew nothing about New Zealand. I thought I
knew where it was, and that was all. I had an impression that
it was close to Australia, or Asia, or somewhere, and that one
went over to it on a bridge. This might turn out to be incorrect;

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id even if correct, it would not furnish matter enough for the
purpose at the dinner, and I should expose my College to shame
before my guest; he would see that I, a member of the Faculty
ol the first University in America, was wholly ignorant of his
country, and he would go away and tell this, and laugh at it.
The thought of it made my face burn.

I sent for my wife and told her how I was situated, and asked
for her help, and she thought of a thing which I might have
thought of myself, if I had not been excited and worried. She
said she would go and tell the visitor that I was out, but would
be in in a few minutes; and she would talk and keep him busy
while I got out the back way and hurried over and made Pro-
fessor Lawson give the dinner. For Lawson knew everything
and could meet the guest in a creditable way, and save the
reputation of the University. I ran to Lawson, but was dis-
appointed. He did not know anything about New Zealand.
He said that as far as his recollection went it was close to Aus-
tralia, or Asia, or somewhere, and you go over to it on a bridge;
but that was all he knew. It was too bad. Lawson was a
perfect encyclopedia of abstruse learning; but now in this hour
of our need, it turned out that he did not know any useful thing.

We consulted. He saw that the reputation of the University
was in very real peril, and he walked the floor in anxiety, talking,
and trying to think out some way to meet the difficulty. Pres-
ently, he decided that we must try the rest of the Faculty —
some of them might know about New Zealand. So we went
to the telephone and called up the professor of astronomy and
asked him, and he said that all he knew was, that it was close
to Australia, or Asia, or somewhere, and you went over to it on —

We shut him off and called up the professor of biology, and he
said that all he knew was that it was close to Aus —

We shut him off, and sat down, worried and disheartened, to
see if we could think up some other scheme. We shortly hit
upon one which promised well, and this one we adopted, and
set its machinery going at once. It was this. Lawson must
give the dinner. The Faculty must be notified by telephone
to prepare. We must all get to work diligently, and at the end
of eight hours and a half we must come to dinner acquainted
with New Zealand; at least well enough informed to appear
without discredit before this native. To seem properly intelli-
gent we should have to know about New Zealand's population,

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MARK TWAIN

and politics, and form of government, and commerce, and taxes,
and products, and ancient history, and modern history, and
varieties of religion, and nature of the laws, and their codification,
and amount of revenue, and whence drawn, and methods of
collection, and percentage of loss, and character of climate,
and — well, a lot of things like that; we must suck the maps and
cyclopedias dry. And while we posted up in this way, the
Faculty's wives must flock over, one after the other, in a studiedly
casual way, and help my wife keep the New-Zealander quiet,
and not let him get out and come interfering with our studies.
The scheme worked admirably; but it stopped business, stopped
it entirely.

It is in the official log-book of Yale, to be read and wondered
at by future generations — the account of the Great Blank Day —
the memorable Blank Day — the day wherein the wheels of cul-
ture were stopped, a Sunday silence prevailed all about, and the
whole University stood still while the Faculty read up and
qualified itself to sit at meat, without shame, in the presence of
the Professor of Theological Engineering from New Zealand.

When we assembled at the dinner we were miserably tired and
worn — but we were posted. Yes, it is fair to claim that. In
fact, erudition is a pale name for it. N'ew Zealand was the only
subject; and it was just beautiful to hear us ripple it out. And
with such an air of unembarrassed ease, and unostentatious
familiarity with detail, and trained and seasoned mastery of
the subject — and oh, the grace and fluency of it!

Well, finally somebody happened to notice that the guest was
looking dazed, and wasn't saying anything. So they stirred
him up, of course. Then that man came out with a good, honest,
eloquent compliment that made the Faculty blush. He said
he was not worthy to sit in the company of men like these;
that he had been silent from admiration; that he had been silent
from another cause also — silent from shame — silent from
ignorance! " For," said he, " I, who have lived eighteen years in
New Zealand and have served five in a professorship, and ought
to know much about that country, perceive, now, that I know
almost nothing about it. I say it with shame, that I have learned
fifty times, yes, a hundred times more about New Zealand in
these two hours at this table than I ever knew before in all the
eighteen years put together. I was silent because I could not
help myself. What I knew about taxes, and policies, and laws,

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

and revenue, and products, and history, and all that multitude
of things, was but general, and ordinary, and vague — unscientific,
in a word — and it would have been insanity to expose it here
to the searching glare of your amazingly accurate and all-com-
prehensive knowledge of those matters, gentlemen. I beg you
to let me sit silent — as becomes me. But do not change the
subject; I can at least follow you, in this one; whereas, if you
change to one which shall call out the full strength of your mighty
erudition, I shall be as one lost. If you know all this about a
remote little inconsequent patch like New Zealand, ah, what
wouldn't you know about any other subject!"

237

CHAPTER XXVII

Man is the Only Animal that Blushes. Or needs to.

— Puddn'head Wilson's New Calendar.
The universal brotherhood of man is our most precious possession, what there
is of it. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

From Diary:

7&T0V. I — Noon. A fine day, a brilliant sun.
J, V Warm in the sun, cold in the shade — an icy
breeze blowing out of the south. A solemn long
swell rolling up northward. It comes from the
South Pole, with nothing in the way to obstruct its
march and tone its energy down. I have read some-
where that an acute observer among the early ex-
plorers— Cook? or Tasman? — accepted this majestic
swell as trustworthy circumstantial evidence that no
important land lay to the southward, and so did
not waste time on a useless quest in that direction,
but changed his course and went searching elsewhere.
Afternoon. Passing between Tasmania (formerly
Van Diemen's Land) and neighboring islands —
islands whence the poor exiled Tasmanian savages
used to gaze at their lost homeland and cry; and
die of broken hearts. How glad I am that all these
native races are dead and gone, or nearly so. The
work was mercifully swift and horrible in some
portions of Australia. As far as Tasmania is con-
cerned, the extermination was complete: not a

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native is left. It was a strife of years, and decades
of years. The Whites and the Blacks hunted each
other, ambushed each other, butchered each other.
The Blacks were not numerous. But they were
wary, alert, cunning, and they knew their country
well. They lasted a long time, few as they were,
and inflicted much slaughter upon the Whites.

The government wanted to save the Blacks from
ultimate extermination, if possible. One of its
schemes was to capture them and coop them up,
on a neighboring island, under guard. Bodies of
Whites volunteered for the hunt, for the pay was
good — five pounds for each Black captured and de-
livered; but the success achieved was not very satis-
factory. The Black was naked, and his body was
greased. It was hard to get a grip on him that would
hold. The Whites moved about in armed bodies,
and surprised little families of natives, and did make
captures; but it was suspected that in these sur-
prises half a dozen natives were killed to one caught—
and that was not what the government desired.

Another scheme was to drive the natives into a
corner of the island and fence them in by a cordon
of men placed in line across the country; but the
natives managed to slip through, constantly, and
continue their murders and arsons.

The Governor warned these unlettered savages by
printed proclamation that they must stay in the
desolate region officially appointed for them! The
proclamation was a dead letter; the savages could
not read it. Afterward a picture-proclamation was
issued. It was painted upon boards, and these

239

MARK TWAIN.

were nailed to trees in the forest. Herewith is a
photographic reproduction of this fashion-plate.
Substantially it means :

i. The Governor wishes the Whites and the Blacks to love
each other;

2. He loves his black subjects;

3. Blacks who kill Whites will be hanged;

4. Whites who kill Blacks will be hanged.

Upon its several schemes the government spent
thirty thousand pounds and employed the labors and
ingenuities of several thousand Whites for a long
time — with failure as a result. Then, at last, a
quarter of a century after the beginning of the
troubles between the two races, the right man was
found. No, he found himself. This was George
Augustus Robinson, called in history "The Concilia-
tor." He was not educated, and not conspicuous in
any way. He was a working bricklayer, in Hobart
Town. But he must have been an amazing person-
ality; a man worth traveling far to see. It may be
his counterpart appears in history, but I do not know
where to look for it.

He set himself this incredible task: to go out into
the wilderness, the jungle, and the mountain retreats
where the hunted and implacable savages were hid-
den, and appear among them unarmed, speak the
language of love and of kindness to them, and per-
suade them to forsake their homes and the wild free
life that was so dear to them, and go with him and
surrender to the hated Whites and live under their
watch and ward, and upon their charity the rest of
their lives ! On its face it was the dream of a madman.

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In the beginning, his moral-suasion project was
sarcastically dubbed the sugar-plum speculation. If
the scheme was striking, and new to the world's
experience, the situation was not less so. It was
this. The White population numbered forty thou-
sand in 1 831; the Black population numbered three
hundred. Not three hundred warriors, but three
hundred men, women, and children. The Whites
were armed with guns, the Blacks with clubs and
spears. The Whites had fought the Blacks for a
quarter of a century, and had tried every thinkable
way to capture, kill, or subdue them ; and could not
do it. If white men of any race could have done
it, these would have accomplished it. But every
scheme had failed, the splendid three hundred, the
matchless three hundred were unconquered, and
manifestly unconquerable. They would not yield,
they would listen to no terms, they would fight to
the bitter end. Yet they had no poet to keep up
their heart, and sing the marvel of their magnificent
patriotism.

At the end of five-and-twenty years of hard fight-
ing, the surviving three hundred naked patriots were
still defiant, still persistent, still efficacious with their
rude weapons, and the Governor and the forty thou-
sand knew not which way to turn, nor what to do.

Then the Bricklayer — that wonderful man — pro-
posed to go out into the wilderness, with no weapon
but his tongue, and no protection but his honest
eye and his humane heart, and track those embittered
savages to their lairs in the gloomy forests and among
the mountain snows. Naturally, he was considered

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MARK TWAIN

a crank. But he was not quite that. In fact, he
was a good way short of that. He was building
upon his long and intimate knowledge of the native
character. The deriders of his project were right —
from their standpoint — for they believed the natives
to be mere wild beasts; and Robinson was right,
from his standpoint — for he believed the natives to
be human beings. The truth did really lie between
the two. The event proved that Robinson's judg-
ment was soundest; but about once a month for
four years the event came near to giving the verdict
to the deriders, for about that frequently Robinson
barely escaped falling under the native spears.

But history shows that he had a thinking head,
and was not a mere wild sentimentalist. For in-
stance, he wanted the war parties called in before
he started unarmed upon his mission of peace. He
wanted the best chance of success — not a half-
chance. And he was very willing to have help;
and so, high rewards were advertised, for any who
would go unarmed with him. This opportunity was
declined. Robinson persuaded some tamed natives
of both sexes to go with him — a strong evidence of
his persuasive powers, for those natives well knew
that their destruction would be almost certain. As
it turned out, they had to face death over and over
again.

Robinson and his little party had a difficult under-
taking upon their hands. They could not ride off,
horseback, comfortably into the woods and call Leon-
idas and his three hundred together for a talk and a
treaty the following day; for the wild men were not

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

in a body; they were scattered, immense distances
apart, over regions so desolate that even the birds
could not make a living with the chances offered —
scattered in groups of twenty, a dozen, half a dozen,
even in groups of three. And the mission must go
on foot. Mr. Bonwick furnishes a description of
those horrible regions, whereby it will be seen that
even fugitive gangs of the hardiest and choicest
human devils the world has seen — the convicts set
apart to people the "Hell of Macquarrie Harbor
Station" — were never able, but once, to survive the
horrors of a march through them, but, starving and
struggling, and fainting and failing, ate each other,
and died:

Onward, still onward, was the order of the indomitable Rob-
inson. No one ignorant of the western country of Tasmania
can form a correct idea of the traveling difficulties. While I
was resident in Hobart Town, the Governor, Sir John Franklin,
and his lady, undertook the western journey to Macquarrie
Harbor, and suffered terribly. One man who assisted to carry
her ladyship through the swamps, gave me this bitter experience
of its miseries. Several were disabled for life. No wonder that
but one party, escaping from Macquarrie Harbor convict settle-
ment, arrived at the civilized region in safety. Men perished
in the scrub, were lost in snow, or were devoured by their com-
panions. This was the territory traversed by Mr. Robinson
and his Black guides. All honor to his intrepidity, and their
wonderful fidelity! When they had, in the depth of winter, to
cross deep and rapid rivers, pass among mountains six thousand
feet high, pierce dangerous thickets, and find food in a country
forsaken even by birds, we can realize their hardships.

After a frightful journey by Cradle Mountain, and over the
lofty plateau of Middlesex Plains, the travelers experienced
unwonted misery, and the circumstances called forth the best
qualities of the noble little band. Mr. Robinson wrote after-
ward to Mr. Secretary Burnett some details of this passage of

243

MARK TWAIN

horrors. In that letter, of October 2, 1834, he states that his
Natives were very reluctant to go over the dreadful mountain
passes; that "for seven successive days we continued traveling
over one solid body of snow "; that "the snows were of incredible
depth"; that "the Natives were frequently up to their middle
in snow." But still the ill-clad, ill-fed, diseased, and wayworn
men and women were sustained by the cheerful voice of their
unconquerable friend, and responded most nobly to his call.

Mr. Bonwick says that Robinson's friendly capture
of the Big River tribe — remember, it was a whole
tribe — "was by far the grandest feature of the war,
and the crowning glory of his efforts." The word
"war" was not well chosen, and is misleading.
There was war still, but only the Blacks were con-
ducting it — the Whites were holding off until Rob-
inson could give his scheme a fair trial. I think
that we are to understand that the friendly capture
of that tribe was by far the most important thing,
the highest in value, that happened during the whole
thirty years of truceless hostilities; that it was a
decisive thing, a peaceful Waterloo, the surrender of
the native Napoleon and his dreaded forces, the
happy ending of the long strife. For "that tribe
was the terror of the colony," its chief "the Black
Douglas of Bush households."

Robinson knew that these formidable people were
lurking somewhere, in some remote corner of the
hideous regions just described, and he and his un-
armed little party started on a tedious and perilous
hunt for them. At last, "there, under the shadows
of the Frenchman's Cap, whose grim cone rose five
thousand feet in the uninhabited westward interior,"
they were found. It was a serious moment. Rob-

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

inson himself believed, for once, that his mission,
successful until now, was to end here in failure, and
that his own death-hour had struck.

The redoubtable chief stood in menacing attitude,
with his eighteen-foot spear poised; his warriors
stood massed at his back, armed for battle, their
faces eloquent with their long-cherished loathing for
white men. "They rattled their spears and shouted
their war-cry." Their women were back of them,
laden with supplies of weapons, and keeping their
one hundred and fifty eager dogs quiet until the chief
should give the signal to fall on.

"I think we shall soon be in the resurrection,"
whispered a member of Robinson's little party.

"I think we shall," answered Robinson; then
plucked up heart and began his persuasions — in the
tribe's own dialect, which surprised and pleased the
chief. Presently there was an interruption by the.
chief:

"Who are you?"

"We are gentlemen."

"' ' Where are your guns ?"

"We have none."

The warrior was astonished.

"Where your little guns?" (pistols.)

"We have none."

A few minutes passed — in by-play — suspense —
discussion among the tribesmen — Robinson's tamed
squaws ventured to cross the line and begin per-
suasions upon the wild squaws. Then the chief
stepped back "to confer with the old women — the
real arbiters of savage war. ' ' Mr. Bonwick continues :

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MARK TWAIN

As the fallen gladiator in the arena looks for the signal of life
or death from the president of the amphitheater, so waited our
friends in anxious suspense while the conference continued. In
a few minutes, before a word was uttered, the women of the
tribe threw up their arms three times. This was the inviolable
sign of peace! Down fell the spears. Forward, with a heavy
sigh of relief, and upward glance of gratitude, came the friends
of peace. The impulsive natives rushed forth with tears and
cries, as each saw in the other's ranks a loved one of the past. . . .

It was a jubilee of joy. A festival followed. And, while
tears flowed at the recital of woe, a corroboree of pleasant
laughter closed the eventful day.

In four years, without the spilling of a drop of
blood, Robinson brought them all in, willing captives,
and delivered them to the white governor, and ended
the war which powder and bullets, and thousands
of men to use them, had prosecuted without result
since 1804.

Marsyas charming the wild beasts with his music —
that is fable; but the miracle wrought by Robinson
is fact. It is history — and authentic; and surely,
there is nothing greater, nothing more reverence-
compelling in the history of any country, ancient
or modern.

And in memory of the greatest man Australasia
ever developed or ever will develop, there is a stately
monument to George Augustus Robinson, the Con-
ciliator, in — no, it is to another man, I forget his name.

However, Robinson's own generation honored him,
and in manifesting it honored themselves. The
government gave him a money reward and a thou-
sand acres of land; and the people held mass-
meetings and praised him and emphasized their
praise with a large subscription of money.

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

A good dramatic situation ; but the curtain fell on
another :

When this desperate tribe was thus captured, there was much
surprise to rind that the thirty thousand pounds of a little earlier
day had been spent, and the whole population of the colony
placed under arms, in contention with an opposing force of
sixteen men with -wooden spears! Yet such was the fact. The
celebrated Big River tribe, that had been raised by European
fears to a host, consisted of sixteen men, nine women, and one
child. With a knowledge of the mischief done by these few,
their wonderful marches and their wide-spread aggressions, their
enemies cannot deny to them the attributes of courage and
military tact. A Wallace might harass a large army with a
small and determined band; but the contending parties were at
least equal in arms and civilization. The Zulus who fought us
in Africa, the Maoris in New Zealand, the Arabs in the Soudan,
were far better provided with weapons, more advanced in the
science of war, and considerably more numerous, than the naked
Tasmanians. Governor Arthur rightly termed them a noble
race.

These were indeed wonderful people, the natives.
They ought not to have been wasted. They should
have been crossed with the Whites. It would have
improved the Whites and done the Natives no harm.

But the Natives were wasted, poor heroic wild
creatures. They were gathered together in little
settlements on neighboring islands, and paternally
cared for by the government, and instructed in
religion, and deprived of tobacco, because the super-
intendent of the Sunday-school was not a smoker,
and so considered smoking immoral.

The Natives were not used to clothes, and houses,
and regular hours, and church, and school, and
Sunday-school, and work, and the other misplaced
persecutions of civilization, arjd they pined for their

247

MARK TWAIN

lost home and their wild, free life. Too late they
repented that they had traded that heaven for this
hell. They sat homesick on their alien crags, and
day by day gazed out through their tears over the
sea with unappeasable longing toward the hazy bulk
which was the specter of what had been their para-
dise; one by one their hearts broke and they died.

In a very few years nothing but a scant remnant
remained alive. A handful lingered along into age.
In 1864 the last man died, in 1876 the last woman
died, and the Spartans of Australasia were extinct.

The Whites always mean well when they take
human fish out of the ocean and try to make them
dry and warm and happy and comfortable in a
chicken-coop ; but the kindest-hearted white man can
always be depended on to prove himself inadequate
when he deals with savages. He cannot turn the
situation around and imagine how he would like it
to have a well-meaning savage transfer him from
his house and his church and his clothes and his
books and his choice food to a hideous wilderness of
sand and rocks and snow, and ice and sleet and
storm and blistering sun, with no shelter, no bed, no
covering for his and his family's naked bodies, and
nothing to eat but snakes and grubs and offal. This
would be a hell to him; and if he had any wisdom he
would know that his own civilization is a hell to the
savage — but he hasn't any, and has never had any;
and for lack of it he shut up those poor natives in the
unimaginable perdition of his civilization, committing
his crime with the very best intentions, and saw
those poor creatures waste away under his tortures;

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

and gazed at it, vaguely troubled and sorrowful, and
wondered what could be the matter with them. One
is almost betrayed into respecting those criminals,
they were so sincerely kind, and tender, and humane,
and well-meaning.

They didn't know why those exiled savages faded
away, and they did their honest best to reason it out.
And one man, in a like case, in New South Wales,
did reason it out and arrive at a solution:

"It is from the wrath of God, which is revealed
from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteous-
ness of men."

That settles it.

249

CHAPTER XXVIII

Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them the rest of us could not succeed.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

THE aphorism does really seem true : ' ' Given the
Circumstances, the Man will appear." But the
man mustn't appear ahead of time, or it will spoil
everything. In Robinson's case the Moment had
been approaching for a quarter of a century — and
meantime the future Conciliator was tranquilly lay-
ing bricks in Hobart. When all other means had
failed, the Moment had arrived, and the Bricklayer
put down his trowel and came forward. Earlier he
would have been jeered back to his trowel again.
It reminds me of a tale that was told me by a Ken-
tuckian on the train when we were crossing Montana.
He said the tale was current in Louisville years ago.
He thought it had been in print, but could not re-
member. At any rate, in substance it was this, as
nearly as I can call it back to mind.

A few years before the outbreak of the Civil War
it 'began to appear that Memphis, Tennessee, was
going to be a great tobacco entrepdt — the wise could
see the signs of it. At that time Memphis had a
wharfooat, of course. There was a paved sloping
wharf, for the accommodation of freight, but the
steamers landed on the outside of the wharfboat, and

250

iffiy.--' • " " GOV t".K -N O ft^UAVfcr'!. J"'^P.;"'?-""1

PROCLA MATION

TO THE ABORIGINES

Y&V6.W'#|^

"Why— Massa Gubernor "— said Black Jack— "You Proflamatioa
ill gammon, how blackfellow read him?— eh! He no fe?4 him
joofc''; i'BeftcUhat.them" saiAtheQoyentor, pgintinito-ipicttoj^i

THE GOVERNOR'S PROCLAMATION

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

all loading and unloading was done across it, between
steamer and shore. A number of wharfboat clerks
were needed, and part of the time, every day, they
were very busy, and part of the time tediously idle.
They were boiling over with youth and spirits,
and they had to make the intervals of idleness
endurable in some way; and as a rule, they did it
by contriving practical jokes and playing them upon
each other.

The favorite butt for the jokes was Ed Jackson,
because he played none himself, and was easy game
for other people's — for he always believed what-
ever was told him.

One day he told the others his scheme for his holi-
day. He was not going fishing or hunting this
time — no, he had thought out a better plan. Out of
his forty dollars a month he had saved enough for
his purpose, in an economical way, and he was going
to have a look at New York.

It was a great and surprising idea. It meant travel
— immense travel — in those days it meant seeing
the world ; it was the equivalent of a voyage around
it in ours. At first the other youths thought his
mind was affected, but when they found that he was
in earnest, the next thing to be thought of was, what
sort of opportunity this venture might afford for a
practical joke.

The young men studied over the matter, then held
a secret consultation and made a plan. The idea
was, that one of the conspirators should offer Ed a
letter of introduction to Commodore Vanderbilt, and
trick him into delivering it. It would be easy to do

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Vol. 15 I— M. T.

MARK TWAIN

this. But what would Ed do when he got back to
Memphis? That was a serious matter. He was
good-hearted, and had always taken the jokes pa-
tiently; but they had been jokes which did not
humiliate him, did not bring him to shame ; whereas,
this would be a cruel one in that way, and to play it
was to meddle with fire; for with all his good nature,
Ed was a Southerner — and the English of that was,
that when he came back he would kill as many of the
conspirators as he could before falling himself. How-
ever, the chances must be taken — it wouldn't do to
waste such a joke as that.

So the letter was prepared with great care and
elaboration. It was signed Alfred Fairchild, and was
written in an easy and friendly spirit. It stated that
the bearer was the bosom friend of the writer's son,
and was of good parts and sterling character, and it
begged the Commodore to be kind to the young
stranger for the writer's sake. It went on to say,
"You may have forgotten me, in this long stretch
of time, but you will easily call me back out of your
boyhood memories when I remind you of how we
robbed old Stevenson's orchard that night; and how,
while he was chasing down the road after us, we cut
across the field and doubled back and sold his own
apples to his own cook for a hatful of doughnuts;
and the time that we — " and so forth and so on,
bringing in names of imaginary comrades, and detail-
ing all sorts of wild and absurd and, of course, wholly
imaginary school-boy pranks and adventures, but
putting them into lively and telling shape.

With all gravity Ed was asked if he would like to

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have a letter to Commodore Vanderbilt, the great
millionaire. It was expected that the question would
astonish Ed, and it did.

1 ' What ? Do you know that extraordinary man ? ' '

"No; but my father does. They were school-
boys together. And if you like, I'll write and ask
father. I know he'll be glad to give it to you for
my sake."

Ed could not find words capable of expressing his
gratitude and delight. The three days passed, and
the letter was put into his hands. He started on his
trip, still pouring out his thanks while he shook good-
by all around. And when he was out of sight his
comrades let fly their laughter in a storm of happy
satisfaction — and then quieted down, and were less
happy, less satisfied. For the old doubts as to the
wisdom of this deception began to intrude again.

Arrived in New York, Ed found his way to Com-
modore Vanderbilt's business quarters, and was
ushered into a large anteroom, where a score of
people were patiently awaiting their turn for a two-
minute interview with the millionaire in his private
office. A servant asked for Ed's card, and got the
letter instead. Ed was sent for a moment later, and
found Mr. Vanderbilt alone, with the letter — open
— in his hand.

'Tray sit down, Mr.— er— "

"Jackson."

"Ah — sit down, Mr. Jackson. By the opening
sentences it seems to be a letter from an old friend.
Allow me — I will run my eye through it. He says —
he says — why, who is it?" He turned the sheet and

253

MARK TWAIN

found the signature, "Alfred Fairchild — h'm — Fair-
child — I don't recall the name. But that is nothing
— a thousand names have gone from me. He says —
he says — h'm — h'm— oh, dear, but it's good ! Oh, it's
rare! I don't quite remember it, but T seem to — it '11
all come back to me presently. He says — he says —
h'm — h'm— oh, but that was a game! Oh, spl-endid!
How it carries me back! It's all dim, of course —
it's a long time ago — and the names — some of the
names are wavery and indistinct — but sho', I know
it happened— I can feel it! and lord, how it warms
my heart, and brings back my lost youth! Well,
well, well, I've got to come back into this workaday
world now — business presses and people are waiting
— I'll keep the rest for bed to-night, and live my
youth over again. And you'll thank Fairchild for
me when you see him — I used to call him Alf, I
think — and you'll give him my gratitude for what
this letter has done for the tired spirit of a hard-
worked man; and tell him there isn't anything that
n do for him or any friend of his that I won't do.
And as for you, my lad, you are my guest; you
can't stop at any hotel in New York. Sit where you
are a little while, till I get through with these people,
then we'll go home. I'll take care of you, my boy —
make yourself easy as to that."

Ed stayed a week, and had an immense time — and
never suspected that the Commodore's shrewd eyes
were on him, and that he was daily being weighed and
measured and analyzed and tried and tested.

Yes, lie had an immense time; and never wrote
home, but saved it all up to tell when he should get

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FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

back. Twice, with proper modes: decency, he

proposed to end his visit, but the Commodore aid,

"No — wait; leave it to me; I'll tell you when
to go."

In those days the Commodore was making some
of those vast combinations of his — consolidations
of warring odds and ends of railroads into harmoni
systems, and concentrations of floating and rudder-
commerce in effective centers — and among oti
thin far-seeing eye had detected the conver-

gence of that huge tobacco-commerce, already spoken
of, toward Memphis, and he had resolved to set his
grasp upon it and make it his own.

The week came to an end. Then the Commodore
said:

"Xc~ you can start home. But first we will have
some more talk about that tobacco matter. I know
you now. I know your abilities as well as you kr
them yourself — perhaps better. You understand
that tobacco matter; you understand that I am go-
ing to take possession of it, and you also understand
the plans which I have matured for doir.2 it. What
I want is a man who knows my mind, and is qualified
to reoresent me in Memphis, and be in supreme
command of that important business — and I appoint
you."

"Mel"

"Yes. Your salary will be high — of course — for
you are representing me. Later you will earn in-
creases of it, and will get them. You will need a
small army of assistants: choose them yourself —
and carefully. Take no man for friendship's sake;

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MARK TWAIN

but, all things being equal, take the man you know,
take your friend, in preference to the stranger."

After some further talk under this head, the Com-
modore said: "Good-by, my boy, and thank Alf
for me, for sending you to me."

When Ed reached Memphis he rushed down to the
wharf in a fever to tell his great news and thank the
boys over and over again for thinking to give him
the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt. It happened to be one
of those idle times. Blazing hot noonday, and no
sign of life on the wharf. But as Ed threaded his
way among the freight -piles, he saw a white linen
figure stretched in slumber upon a pile of grain-sacks
under an awning, and said to himself, "That's one
of them," and hastened his step; next, he said.
"It's Charley— it's Fairchild— good " ; and the next
moment laid an affectionate hand on the sleeper's
shoulder. The eyes opened lazily, took one glance,
the face blanched, the form whirled itself from the
sack-pile, and in an instant Ed was alone and Fair-
child was flying for the wharfboat like the wind!

Ed was dazed, stupefied. Was Fairchild crazy?
What could be the meaning of this? He started
slow and dreamily down toward the wharfboat;
turned the corner of a freight-pile and came suddenly
upon two of the boys. They were lightly laughing
over some pleasant matter; they heard his step, and
glanced up just as he discovered them; the laugh
died abruptly; and before Ed could speak they were
off, and sailing over barrels and bales like hunted
deer. Again Ed was paralyzed. Had the boys all
gone mad? What could be the explanation of this

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extraordinary conduct? And so, dreaming along,
he reached the wharfboat, and stepped aboard —
nothing but silence there, and vacancy. He crossed
the deck, turned the corner to go down the outer
guard, heard a fervent —

"O Lord!" and saw a white linen form plunge
overboard.

The youth came up coughing and strangling, and
cried out :

' ' Go 'way from here ! You let me alone. I didn't
do it, I swear I didn't!"

"Didn't do what?"

"Give you the—"

"Never mind what you didn't do — come out of
that! What makes you all act so? What have I
done?"

"You? Why, you haven't done anything. But — "

"Well, then, what have you got against me?
What do you all treat me so for?"

"I — er — but haven't you got anything against us?"

"Of course not. What put such a thing into your
head?"

"Honor bright — you haven't?"

"Honor bright."

"Swear it!"

"I don't know what in the world you mean, but
I swear it, anyway."

"And you'll shake hands with me?"

"Goodness knows I'll be glad to! Why, I'm just
starving to shake hands with somebody!"

The swimmer muttered, "Hang him, he smelt a
rat and never delivered the letter! — but it's all right,

2£7

MARK TWAIN

I'm not going to fetch up the subject." And he
crawled out and came dripping and draining to shake
hands. First one and then another of the con-
spirators showed up cautiously — armed to the teeth —
took in the amicable situation, then ventured warily
forward and joined the love-feast.

And to Ed's eager inquiry as to what made them
act as they had been acting, they answered evasively
and pretended that they had put it up as a joke, to
see what he would do. It was the best explanation
they could invent at such short notice. And each
said to himself, "He never delivered that letter, and
the joke is on us, if he only knew it or we were dull
enough to come out and tell."

Then, of course, they wanted to know all about
the trip; and he said:

"Come right up on the boiler deck and order the
drinks — it's my treat. I'm going to tell you all
about it. And to-night it's my treat again — and
we'll have oysters and a time!"

When the drinks were brought and cigars lighted,
Ed said :

"Well, when I delivered the letter to Mr. Van-
derbilt— "

"Great Scott!"

"Gracious, how you scared me. What's the
matter?"

' ' Oh — er — nothing. Nothing — it was a tack in the
chair-seat," said one.

"But you all said it. However, no matter. When
I delivered the letter — "

"Did you deliver it?" And they looked at each

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other as people might who thought that maybe they
were dreaming.

Then they settled to listening; and as the story
deepened and its marvels grew, the amazement of it
made them dumb, and the interest of it took their
breath. They hardly uttered a whisper during two
hours, but sat like petrifactions and drank in the
immortal romance. At last the tale was ended, and
Ed said :

"And it's all owing to you, boys, and you'll never
find me ungrateful — bless your hearts, the best
friends a fellow ever had! You'll all have places;
I want every one of you. I know you — I know you
'by the back,'' as the gamblers say. You're jokers,
and all that, but you're sterling, with the hallmark
on. And Charley Fairchild, you shall be my first
assistant and right hand, because of your first-class
ability, and because you got me the letter, and for
your father's sake who wrote it for me, and to please
Mr. Vanderbilt, who said it would! And here's to
that great man — drink hearty!"

Yes, when the Moment comes, the Man appears —
even if he is a thousand miles away, and has to be
discovered by a practical joke.

259

CHAPTER XXIX

When people do not respect us we are sharply offended; yet deep down in hia
private heart no man much respects himself.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

NECESSARILY, the human interest is the first
interest in the log-book of any country. The
annals of Tasmania, in whose shadow we were sail-
ing, are lurid with that feature. Tasmania was a
convict-dump, in old times; this has been indicated
in the account of the Conciliator, where reference
is made to vain attempts of desperate convicts to
win to permanent freedom, after escaping from
Macquarrie Harbor and the "Gates of Hell." In
the early days Tasmania had a great population of
convicts, of both sexes and all ages, and a bitter hard
life they had. In one spot there was a settlement
of juvenile convicts — children — who had been sent
thither from their home and their friends on the
other side of the globe to expiate their "crimes."

In due course our ship entered the estuary called
the Derwent, at whose head stands Hobart, the cap-
ital of Tasmania. The Derwent's shores furnish
scenery of an interesting sort. The historian Laurie,
whose book, The Story of Australasia, is just out,
invoices its features with considerable truth and
intemperance: "The marvelous picturesqueness of
every point of view, combined with the clear balmy

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atmosphere and the transparency of the ocean
depths, must have delighted and deeply impressed"
the early explorers. "If the rock-bound coasts,
sullen, defiant, and lowering, seemed uninviting,
these were occasionally broken into charmingly
alluring coves floored with golden sand, clad with
evergreen shrubbery, and adorned with every variety
of indigenous wattle, she-oak, wild flower, and fern,
from the delicately graceful 'maiden-hair' to the
palm-like 'old man'; while the majestic gum tree,
clean and smooth as the mast of 'some tall ammiral,'
pierces the clear air to the height of two hundred
and thirty feet or more."

It looks so to me. "Coasting along Tasman's
Peninsula, what a shock of pleasant wonder must
have struck the early mariner on suddenly sighting
Cape Pillar, with its cluster of black-ribbed basaltic
columns rising to a height of nine hundred feet, the
hydra heads wreathed in a turban of fleecy cloud,
the base lashed by jealous waves spouting angry
fountains of foam."

That is well enough, but I did not suppose those
snags were nine hundred feet high. Still they were
a very fine show. They stood boldly out by them-
selves, and made a fascinatingly odd spectacle. But
there was nothing about their appearance to suggest
the heads of a hydra. They looked like a row of lofty
slabs with their upper ends tapered to the shape of
a carving-knife point; in fact, the early voyager,
ignorant of their great height, might have mistaken
them for a rusty old rank of piles that had sagged
this way and that out of the perpendicular.

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MARK TWAIN

The Peninsula is lofty, rocky, and densely clothed
with scrub, or brush, or both. It is joined to the
main by a low neck. At this junction was formerly
a convict station called Port Arthur — a place hard
to escape from. Behind it was the wilderness of
scrub, in which a fugitive would soon starve; in
front was the narrow neck, with a cordon of chained
dogs across it, and a line of lanterns, and a fence of
living guards, armed. We saw the place as we
swept by — that is, we had a glimpse of what we
were told was the entrance to Port Arthur. The
glimpse was worth something, as a remembrancer,
but that was all.

"The voyage thence up the Derwent Frith dis-
plays a grand succession of fairy visions, in its entire
length elsewhere unequaled. In gliding over the
deep blue sea studded with lovely islets luxuriant to
the water's edge, one is at a loss which scene to
choose for contemplation and to admire most. When
the Huon and Bruni have been passed, there seems
no possible chance of a rival; but suddenly Mount
Wellington, massive and noble like his brother
Etna, literally heaves in sight, sternly guarded on
either hand by Mounts Nelson and Rumney; pres-
ently we arrive at Sullivan's Cove — Hobart!"

It is an attractive town. It sits on low hills that
slope to the harbor — a harbor that looks like a river,
, and is as smooth as one. Its still surface is pictured
with dainty reflections of boats and grassy banks and
luxuriant foliage. Back of the town rise highlands
that are clothed in woodland loveliness, and over the
way is that noble mountain, Wellington, a stately

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bulk, a most majestic pile. How beautiful is the
whole region, for form, and grouping, and opulence,
and freshness of foliage, and variety of color, and
grace and shapeliness of the hills, the capes, the
promontories; and then, the splendor of the sun-
light, the dim rich distances, the charm of the water-
glimpses! And it was in this paradise that the
3^ellow-liveried convicts were landed, and the Corps-
bandits quartered, and the wanton slaughter of the
kangaroo-chasing black innocents consummated on
that autumn day in May, in the brutish old time.
It was all out of keeping with the place, a sort of
bringing of heaven and hell together.

The remembrance of this paradise reminds me that
it was at Hobart that we struck the head of the pro-
cession of Junior Englands. We were to encounter
other sections of it in New Zealand, presently, and
others later in Natal. Wherever the exiled English-
man can find in his new home resemblances to his
old one, he is touched to the marrow of his being;
the love that is in his heart inspires his imagination,
and these allied forces transfigure those resemblances
into authentic duplicates of the revered originals.
It is beautiful, the feeling which works this enchant-
ment, and it compels one's homage ; compels it, and
also compels one's assent — compels it always — even
when, as happens sometimes, one does not see the
resemblances as clearly as does the exile who is
pointing them out.

The resemblances do exist, it is quite true; and
often they cunningly approximate the originals —
but after all, in the matter of certain physical patent

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MARK TWAIN

rights there is only one England. Now that I have
sampled the globe, I am not in doubt. There is a
beauty of Switzerland, and it is repeated in the
glaciers and snowy ranges of many parts of the
earth ; there is a beauty of the fiord, and it is repeated
in New Zealand and Alaska; there is a beauty of
Hawaii, and it is repeated in ten thousand islands of
the Southern seas; there is a beauty of the prairie
and the plain, and it is repeated here and there in the
earth; each of these is worshipful, each is perfect in
its way, yet holds no monopoly of its beauty; but
that beauty which is England is alone — it has no
duplicate. It is made up of very simple details —
just grass, and trees, and shrubs, and roads, and
hedges, and gardens, and houses, and vines, and
churches, and castles, and here and there a ruin —
and over it all a mellow dream-haze of history. But
its beauty is incomparable, and all its own.

Hobart has a peculiarity — it is the neatest town
that the sun shines on; and I incline to believe
that it is also the cleanest. However that may be,
its supremacy in neatness is not to be questioned.
There cannot be another town in the world that has
no shabby exteriors; no rickety gates and fences,
no neglected houses crumbling to ruin, no crazy
and unsightly sheds, no weed-grown front yards of
the poor, no back yards littered with tin cans and
old boots and empty bottles, no rubbish in the gut-
ters, no clutter on the sidewalks, no outer borders
fraying out into dirty lanes and tin-patched huts.
No, in Hobart all the aspects are tidy, and all a com-
fort to the eye ; the modestest cottage looks combed

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and brushed, and has its vines, its flowers, its neat
fence, its neat gate, its comely cat asleep on the
window ledge.

We had a glimpse of the museum, by courtesy of
the American gentleman who is curator of it. It
has samples of half a dozen different kinds of mar-
supials1— one, the "Tasmanian devil"; that is, I
think he was one of them. And there was a fish
with lungs. When the water dries up it can live in
the mud. Most curious of all was a parrot that
kills sheep. On one great sheep-run this bird killed
a thousand sheep in a whole year. He doesn't want
the whole sheep, but only the kidney-fat. This
restricted taste makes him an expensive bird to
support. To get the fat he drives his beak in and
rips it out; the wound is mortal. This parrot fur-
nishes a notable example of evolution brought about
by changed conditions. When the sheep culture was
introduced, it presently brought famine to the parrot
by exterminating a kind of grub which had always
hitherto been the parrot's diet. The miseries of
hunger made the bird willing to eat raw flesh, since
it could get no other food, and it began to pick
remnants of meat from sheep-skins hung out on the
fences to dry. It soon came to prefer sheep meat
to any other food, and by and by it came to prefer

1 A marsupial is a plantigrade vertebrate whose specialty is its
pocket. In some countries it is extinct, in the others it is rare.
The first American marsupials were Stephen Girard, Mr. Astor, and
the opossum; the principal marsupials of the Southern Hemi-
sphere are Mr. Rhodes and the kangaroo. I, myself, am the latest
marsupial. Also, I might boast that I have the largest pocket of
them all. But there is nothing in that.

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MARK TWAIN

the kidney -fat to any other detail of the sheep. The
parrot's bill was not well shaped for digging out the
fat, but Nature fixed that matter; she altered the
bili's shape, and now the parrot can dig out kidney-
fat better than the Chief Justice of the Supreme
Court, or anybody else, for that matter — even an
Admiral.

And there was another curiosity — quite a stunning
one, I thought: Arrow-heads and knives just like
those which Primeval Man made out of flint, and
thought he had done such a wonderful thing — yes,
and has been humored and coddled in that super-
stition by this age of admiring scientists until there
is probably no living with him in the other world by
now. Yet here is his finest and nicest work exactly
duplicated in our day ; and by people who have never
heard of him or his works: by aborigines who lived
in the islands of these seas, within our time. And
they not only duplicated those works of art but did
it in the brittlest and most treacherous of substances
— glass: made them out of old brandy bottles flung
out of the British camps; millions of tons of them.
It is time for Primeval Man to make a little less
noise, now. He has had his day. He is not what
he used to be.

We had a drive through a bloomy and odorous
fairy-land, to the Refuge for the Indigent — a spa-
cious and comfortable home, with hospitals, etc.,
for both sexes. There was a crowd there, of the
oldest people I have ever seen. It was like being
suddenly set down in a new world — a weird world
where Youth has never been, a world sacred to Age,

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and bowed forms, and wrinkles. Out of the 359
persons present, 223 were ex-convicts, and could have
told stirring tales, no doubt, if they had been minded
to talk; 42 of the 359 were past 80, and several were
close upon 90; the average age at death there is 76
years. As for me, I have no use for that place; it
is too healthy. Seventy is old enough — after that,
there is too much risk. Youth and gaiety might
vanish, any day — and then, what is left? Death in
life; death without its privileges, death without its
benefits. There were 185 women in that Refuge,
and 81 of them were ex-convicts.

The steamer disappointed us. Instead of making
a long visit at Hobart, as usual, she made a short
one. So we got but a glimpse of Tasmania, and then
moved on.

267

CHAPTER XXX

Nature makes the locust with an appetite for crops; man would have made
him with an appetite for sand. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WE spent part of an afternoon and a night at
sea, and reached Bluff, in New Zealand, early
in the morning. Bluff is at the bottom of the middle
island, and is away down south, nearly forty-seven
degrees below the equator. It lies as far south of
the line as Quebec lies north of it, and the climates of
the two should be alike; but for some reason or other
it has not been so arranged. Quebec is hot in the
summer and cold in the winter, but Bluff's climate
is less intense; the cold weather is not very cold,
the hot weather is not very hot; and the difference
between the hottest month and the coldest is but
seventeen degrees Fahrenheit.

In New Zealand the rabbit plague began at Bluff.
The man who introduced the rabbit there was ban-
queted and lauded; but they would hang him, now,
if they could get him. In England the natural
enemy of the rabbit is detested and persecuted; in
the Bluff region the natural enemy of the rabbit is
honored, and his person is sacred. The rabbit's
natural enemy in England is the poacher; in Bluff
its natural enemy is the stoat, the weasel, the ferret,
the cat, and the mongoose. In England any person

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below the Heir who is caught with a rabbit in his
possession must satisfactorily explain how it got
there, or he will suffer fine and imprisonment, to-
gether with extinction of his peerage; in Bluff, the
cat found with a rabbit in its possession does not
have to explain — everybody looks the other way;
the person caught noticing would suffer fine and
imprisonment, with extinction of peerage. This is a
sure way to undermine the moral fabric of a cat.
Thirty years from now there will not be a moral cat
in New Zealand. Some think there is none there
now. In England the poacher is watched, tracked,
hunted — he dare not show his face; in Bluff the cat,
the weasel, the stoat, and the mongoose go up and
down, whither they will, unmolested. By a law of
the legislature, posted where all may read, it is
decreed that any person found in possession of one of
these creatures (dead) must satisfactorily explain the
circumstances or pay a fine of not less than five
pounds, nor more than twenty pounds. The revenue
from this source is not large. Persons who want to
pay a hundred dollars for a dead cat are getting
rarer and rarer every day. This is bad, for the reve-
nue was to go to the endowment of a university.
All governments are more or less short-sighted: in
England they fine a poacher, whereas he ought to be
banished to New Zealand. New Zealand would pay
his way, and give him wages.

It was from Bluff that we ought to have cut across
to the west coast and visited the New Zealand
Switzerland, a land of superb scenery, made up of
snowy grandeurs, and mighty glaciers, and beautiful

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lakes; and over there, also, are the wonderful rivals
of the Norwegian and Alaskan fiords ; and for neigh-
bor, a waterfall of nineteen hundred feet; but we
were obliged to postpone the trip to some later and
indefinite time.

November 6. A lovely summer morning; brilliant
blue sky. A few miles out from Invercargill, passed
through vast level green expanses snowed over with
sheep. Fine to see. The green, deep and very-
vivid sometimes; at other times less so, but delicate
and lovely. A passenger reminds me that I am in
"the England of the Far South."

Dunedin, same date. The town justifies Michael
Davitt's praises. The people are Scotch. They
stopped here on their way from home to heaven-
thinking they had arrived. The population is stated
at forty thousand, by Malcolm Ross, journalist ; stated
by an M. P. at sixty thousand. A journalist cannot lie.

To the residence of Dr. Hockin. He has a fine
collection of books relating to New Zealand; and
his house is a museum of Maori art and antiquities.
He has pictures and prints in color of many native
chiefs of the past — some of them of note in history.
There is nothing of the savage in the faces; nothing
could be finer than these men's features, nothing
more intellectual than these faces, nothing more
masculine, nothing nobler than their aspect. The
aboriginals of Australia and Tasmania looked the
savage, but these chiefs looked like Roman patricians.
The tattooing in these portraits ought to suggest
the savage, of course, but it does not. The designs
are so flowing and graceful and beautiful that they

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are a most satisfactory decoration. It takes but
fifteen minutes to get reconciled to the tattooing,
and but fifteen more to perceive that it is just the
thing. After that, the undecorated European face
is unpleasant and ignoble.

Dr. Hockin gave us a ghastly curiosity — a ligni-
fied caterpillar with a plant growing out of the back
of its neck — a plant with a slender stem four inches
high. It happened not by accident, but by design —
Nature's design. This caterpillar was in the act of
loyally carrying out a law inflicted upon him by
Nature — a law purposely inflicted upon him to get
him into trouble — a law which was a trap; in pur-
suance of this law he made the proper preparations
for turning himself into a night-moth; that is to say,
he dug a little trench, a little grave, and then
stretched himself out in it on his stomach and par-
tially buried himself — then Nature was ready for
him. She blew the spores of a peculiar fungus
through the air — with a purpose. Some of them fell
into a crease in the back of the caterpillar's neck,
and began to sprout and grow — for there was soil
there — he had not washed his neck. The roots
forced themselves down into the worm's person, and
rearward along through its body, sucking up the
creature's juices for sap ; the worm slowly died, and
turned to wood. And here he was now, a wooden
caterpillar, with every detail of his forma: physique
delicately and exactly preserved and perpetuated,
and with that stem standing up out of him for his
monument — monument commemorative of his own
loyalty and of Nature's unfair return for it.

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MARK TWAIN

Nature is always acting like that. Mrs. X said
(of course) that the caterpillar was not conscious
and didn't suffer. She should have known better.
No caterpillar can deceive Nature. If this one
couldn't suffer, Nature would have known it and
would have hunted up another caterpillar. Not that
she would have let this one go, merely because it
was defective. No. She would have waited and let
him turn into a night-moth; and then fried him in
the candle.

Nature cakes a fish's eyes over with parasites, so
that it sha'n't be able to avoid its enemies or find its
food. She sends parasites into a starfish's system,
which clog up its prongs and swell them and make
them so uncomfortable that the poor creature de-
livers itself from the prong to ease its misery; and
presently it has to part with another prong for the
sake of comfort, and finally with a third. If it
regrows the prongs, the parasite returns and the
same thing is repeated. And finally, when the ability
to reproduce prongs is lost through age, that poor
old starfish can't get around any more, and so it
dies of starvation.

In Australia is prevalent a horrible disease due to
an "unperfected tape-worm." Unperfected — that
is what they call it, I do not know why, for it trans-
acts business just as well as if it were finished and
frescoed and gilded, and all that.

November p. To the museum and public picture-
gallery with the president of the Society of Artists.
Some fine pictures there, lent by the S. of A. —
several of them they bought, the others came to them

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by gift. Next, to the gallery of the S. of A. —
annual exhibition — just opened. Fine. Think of a
town like this having two such collections as this,
and a Society of Artists. It is so all over Australasia.
If it were a monarchy one might understand it.
I mean an absolute monarchy, where it isn't neces-
sary to vote money, but take it. Then art flourishes.
But these colonies are republics — republics with a
wide suffrage; voters of both sexes, this one of
New Zealand. In republics, neither the government
nor the rich private citizen is much given to propa-
gating art. All over Australasia pictures by famous
European artists are bought for the public galleries
by the state and by societies of citizens. Living
citizens — not dead ones. They rob themselves to
give, not their heirs. This S. of A. here owns its
building — built it by subscription.

273

CHAPTER XXXI

The spirit of wrath — not the words — is the sin; and the spirit of wrath is curs?
ing. We begin to swear before we can talk.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

TkTOVEMBER 1 1. On the road. This train—
J. V express — goes twenty and one-half miles an
hour, schedule time; but it is fast enough, the out-
look upon sea and land is so interesting, and the cars
so comfortable. They are not English, and not
American; they are the Swiss combination of the
two. A narrow and railed porch along the side,
where a person can walk up and down. A lavatory
in each car. This is progress; this is nineteenth-
century spirit. In New Zealand, these fast expresses
run twice a week. It is well to know this if you
want to be a bird and fly through the country at a
twenty-mile gait; otherwise you may start on one
of the five wrong days, and then you will get a train
that can't overtake its own shadow.

By contrast, these pleasant cars call to mind the
branch-road cars at Maryborough, Australia, and
a passenger's talk about the branch-road and the
hotel.

Somewhere on the road to Maryborough I changed
for a while to a smoking-carriage. There were two
gentlemen there; both riding backward, one at each
end of the compartment. They were acquaintances

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of each other. I sat down facing the one that sat at
the starboard window. He had a good face, and a
friendly look, and I judged from his dress that he
was a dissenting minister. He v**as along toward
fifty. Of his own motion he struck a match, and
shaded it with his hand for me to light my cigar. I
take the rest from my diary:

In order to start conversation I asked him some-
thing about Maryborough. He said, in a most
pleasant — even musical — voice, but with quiet and
cultured decision:

"It's a charming town, with a hell of a hotel."

I was astonished. It seemed so odd to hear a
minister swear out loud. He went placidly on:

"It's the worst hotel in Australia. Well, one may
go further, and say in Australasia."

"Bad beds?"

"No — none at all. Just sand-bags.'*

"The pillows, too?"

"Yes, the pillows, too. Just sand. And not a
good quality of sand. It packs too hard, and has
never been screened. There is too much gravel in 'it.
It is like sleeping on nuts."

"Isn't there any good sand?"

"Plenty of it. There is as good bed-sand in this
region as the world can furnish. Aerated sand —
and loose; but they won't buy it. They want
something that will pack solid, and petrify."
How are the rooms ? "

"Eight feet square; and a sheet of iced oil-cloth
to step on in the morning when you get out of the
sand-quarry."

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MARK TWAIN

"As to lights?"

"Coal-oil lamp."

"A good one?"

"No. It's the kind that sheds a gloom."

"I like a lamp that burns all night."

"This one won't. You must blow it out early."

"That is bad. One might want it again in the
night. Can't find it in the dark."

1 ' There's no trouble ; you can find it by the stench. ' '

"Wardrobe?"

"Two nails on the door to hang seven suits of
clothes on — if you've got them."

"Bells?"

"There aren't any."

"What do you do when you want service?"

"Shout. But it won't fetch anybody."

"Suppose you want the chambermaid to empty
the slop-jar?"

"There isn't any slop-jar. The hotels don't keep
them. That is, outside of Sydney and Melbourne."

"Yes, I knew that. I was only talking. It's the
oddest thing in Australia. Another thing: I've got
to get up in the dark, in the morning, to take the
five-o'clock train. Now if the boots — "

"There isn't any."

"Well, the porter."

"There isn't any."

"But who will call mer"

"Nobody. You'll call yourself. And you'll light
yourself, too. There'll not be a light burning in the
halls or anywhere. And if you don't carry a light,
you'll break your neck."

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"But who will help me down with my baggage?"

"Nobody. However, I will tell you what to do.
In Maryborough there's an American who has lived
there half a lifetime; a fine man, and prosperous
and popular. He will be on the lookout for you;
you won't have any trouble. Sleep in peace; he
will rout you out, and you will make your train.
Where is your manager?"

"I left him at Ballarat, studying the language.
And besides, he had to go to Melbourne and get us
ready for New Zealand. I've not tried to pilot my-
self before, and it doesn't look easy."

"Easy! You've selected the very most difficult
piece of railroad in Australia for your experiment.
There are twelve miles of this road which no man
without good executive ability can ever hope — tell
me, have you good executive ability? — first-rate ex-
ecutive ability?"

"I— well, I think so, but—"

"That settles it. The tone of — oh, you wouldn't
ever make it in the world. However, that American
will point you right, and you'll go. You've got
tickets?"

"Yes — round trip; all the way to Sydney."

"Ah, there it is, you see! You are going in the
five o'clock by Castlemaine — twelve miles — instead
of the seven-fifteen by Ballarat — in order to save two
hours of fooling along the road. Now then, don't
interrupt — let me have the floor. You're going to
save the government a deal of hauling, but that's
nothing; your ticket is by Ballarat, and it isn't good
over that twelve miles, and so — "

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MARK TWAIN

"But why should the government care which way

I go?"

"Goodness knows! Ask of the winds that far
away with fragments strewed the sea, as the boy that
stood on the burning deck used to say. The govern-
ment chooses to do its railway business in its own
way, and it doesn't know as much about it as the
French. In the beginning they tried idiots; then
they imported the French — which was going back-
ward, you see; now it runs the roads itself — which
is going, backward again, you see. Why, do you
know, in order to curry favor with the voters, the
government puts down a road wherever anybody
wants it — anybody that owns two sheep and a dog;
and by consequence we've got, in the colony of Vic-
toria, eight hundred railway-stations, and the busi-
ness done at eighty of them doesn't foot up twenty
shillings a week."

"Five dollars? Oh, come!"

"It's true. It's the absolute truth."

"Why, there are three or four men on wages at
every station."

' ' I know it. And the station business doesn't pay
for the sheep-dip to sanctify their coffee with. It's
just as I say. And accommodating? Why, if you
shake a rag the train will stop in the midst of the
wilderness to pick you up. All that kind of politics
costs, you see. And then, besides, any town that
has a good many votes and wants a fine station, gets
it. Don't you overlook that Maryborough station,
if you take an interest in governmental curiosities.
Why, you can put the whole population of Mary-

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borough into it, and give them a sofa apiece, and
have room for more. You haven't fifteen stations
in America that are as big, and you probably haven't
five that are half as fine. Why, it's perfectly elegant.
And the clock! Everybody will show you the clock.
There isn't a station in Europe that's got such a
clock. It doesn't strike — and that's one mercy. It
hasn't any bell ; and as you'll have cause to remem-
ber, if you keep your reason, all Australia is simply
bedamned with bells. On every quarter-hour, night
and day, they jingle a tiresome chime of half a dozen
notes — all the clocks in town at once, all the clocks
in Australasia at once, and all the very same notes;
first, downward scale: mi, re, do, sol — then upward
scale: sol, si, re, do — down again: mi, re, do, sol —
up again: sol, si, re, do — then the clock — say at
midnight : clang — dang — clang — clang — clang —
clang — clang — clang — clang — clang — clang — clang! —
and, by that time you're — hello, what's all this
excitement about? Oh, I see — a runaway — scared
by the train; why, you wouldn't think this train
could scare anything. Well, of course, when they
build and run eighty stations at a loss, and a lot of
palace-stations and clocks like Maryborough's at
another loss, the government has got to economize
somewhere, hasn't it? Very well — look at the roll-
ing stock! That's where they save the money.
Why, that train from Maryborough will consist of
eighteen freight -cars and two passenger - kennels ;
cheap, poor, shabby, slovenly; no drinking-water,
no sanitary arrangements, every imaginable incon-
venience; and slow? — oh, the gait of cold molasses;

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MARK TWAIN

no air-brake, no springs, and they'll jolt your h,ead
off every time they start or stop. That's where they
make their little economies, you see. They spend
tons of money to house you palatially while you wait
fifteen minutes for a train, then degrade you to six
hours' convict-transportation to get the foolish out-
lay back. What a rational man really needs is
discomfort while he's waiting, then his journey in a
nice train would be a grateful change. But no, that
would be common sense — and out of place in a
government. And then, besides, they save in that
other little detail, you know — repudiate their own
tickets, and collect a poor little illegitimate extra
shilling out of you for that twelve miles, and — "

"Well, in any case — "

"Wait — there's more. Leave that American out
of the account and see what would happen. There's
nobody on hand to examine your ticket when you
arrive. But the conductor will come and examine it
when the train is ready to start. It is too late to buy
your extra ticket now; the train can't wait, and
won't. You must climb out."

"But can't I pay the conductor?"

"No, he is not authorized to receive the money,
and he won't. You must climb out. There's no
other way. I tell you, the railway management is
about the only thoroughly European thing here —
continentally European I mean, not English. It's the
continental business in perfection ; down fine. Oh, yes,
even to the peanut-commerce of weighing baggage."

The train slowed up at his place. As he stepped
out he said :

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"Yes, you'll like Maryborough. Plenty of intel-
ligence there. It's a charming place — with a hell
of a hotel."

Then he was gone. I turned to the other gentle-
man:

"Is your friend in the ministry?"

"No — studying for it."

CHAPTER XXXII

The man with a new idea is a Crank until the idea succeeds.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

IT was Junior England all the way to Christchurch
— in fact, just a garden. And Christchurch is
an English town, with an English-park annex, and a
winding English brook just like the Avon — and
named the Avon; but from a man, not from Shake-
speare's river. Its grassy banks are bordered by the
stateliest and most impressive weeping willows to be
found in the world, I suppose. They continue the
line of a great ancestor; they were grown from
sprouts of the willow that sheltered Napoleon's grave
in St. Helena. It is a settled old community, with
all the serenities, the graces, the conveniences, and
the comforts of the ideal home-life. If it had an
established Church and social inequality it would be
England over again with hardly a lack.

In the museum we saw many curious and interest-
ing things; among others a fine native house of the
olden time, with all the details true to the facts, and
the showy colors right and in their proper places.
All the details: the fine mats and rugs and things;
the elaborate and wonderful wood-carvings — won-
derful, surely, considering who did them — wonderful
in design and particularly in execution, for they

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were done with admirable sharpness and exactness,
and yet with no better tools than flint and jade and
shell could furnish; and the totem-posts were there,
ancestor above ancestor, with tongues protruded and
hands clasped comfortably over bellies containing
other people's ancestors — grotesque and ugly devils,
every one, but lovingly carved, and ably; and the
stuffed natives were present, in their proper places,
and looking as natural as life ; and the housekeeping
utensils were there, too, and close at hand the
carved and finely ornamented war-canoe.

And we saw little jade gods, to hang around the
neck — not everybody's, but sacred to the necks of
natives of rank. Also jade weapons, and many
kinds of jade trinkets — all made out of that exces-
sively hard stone without the help of any tool of iron.
And some of these things had small round holes
bored through them — nobody knows how it was
done; a mystery, a lost art. I think it was said
that if you want such a hole bored in a piece of jade
now, you must send it to London or Amsterdam
where the lapidaries are.

Also we saw a complete skeleton of the giant Moa.
It stood ten feet high, and must have been a sight to
look at when it was a living bird. It was a kicker,
like the ostrich; in fight it did not use its beak, but
its foot. It must have been a convincing kind of
kick. If a person had his back to the bird and did
not see who it was that did it, he would think he
had been kicked by a wind-mill.

There must have been a sufficiency of moas in the
old forgotten days when his breed walked the earth.

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Vol. 15 J— M. T.

MARK TWAIN

His bones are found in vast masses, all crammed
together in huge graves. They are not in caves,
but in the ground. Nobody knows how they hap-
pened to get concentrated there. Mind, they are
bones, not fossils. This means that the moa has not
been extinct very long. Still, this is the only New
Zealand creature which has no mention in that other-
wise comprehensive literature, the native legends.
This is a significant detail, and is good circumstan-
tial evidence that the moa has been extinct five
hundred years, since the Maori has himself — by
tradition — been in New Zealand since the end of
the fifteenth century. He came from an unknown
land — the first Maori did — then sailed back in a
canoe and brought his tribe, and they removed the
aboriginal peoples into the sea and into the ground
and took the land. That is the tradition. That
that first Maori could come is understandable, for
anybody can come to a place when he isn't trying
to; but how that discoverer found his way back
home again without a compass is his secret, and he
died with it in him. His language indicates that he
came from Polynesia. He told where he came from,
but he couldn't spell well, so one can't find the
place on the map, because people who could spell
better than he could spelled the resemblance all out
of it when they made the map. However, it is
better to have a map that is spelled right than one
that has information in it.

In New Zealand women have the right to vote for
members of the legislature, but they cannot be
members themselves. The law extending the suf-

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frage to them went into effect in 1893. The popu-
lation of Christchurch (census of 1891) was 31,454.
The first election under the law was held in November
of that year. Number of men who voted, 6,313;
number of women who voted, 5,989. These figures
ought to convince us that women are not as indiffer-
ent about politics as some people would have us
believe. In New Zealand as a whole, the estimated
adult female population was 139,915; of those
109,461 qualified and registered their names on the
rolls — 78.23 per cent, of the whole. Of these,
90,290 went to the polls and voted — 85.18 per cent.
Do men ever turn out better than that — in America
or elsewhere? Here is a remark to the other sex's
credit, too — I take it from the official report:

"A feature of the election was the orderliness and
sobriety of the people. Women were in no way
molested."

At home, a standing argument against woman
suffrage has always been that women could not go to
the polls without being insulted. The arguments
against woman suffrage have always taken the easy
form of prophecy. The prophets have been prophe-
sying ever since the woman's rights movement began
in 1848 — and in forty-seven years they have never
scored a hit.

Men ought to begin to feel a sort of respect for
their mothers and wives and sisters by this time.
The women deserve a change of attitude like that,
for they have wrought well. In forty-seven years
they have swept an imposingly large number of
unfair laws from the statute-books of America. In

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MARK TWAIN

that brief time these serfs have set themselves free
— essentially. Men could not have done so much
for themselves in that time without bloodshed — at
least they never have; and that is argument that
they didn't know howv The women have accom-
plished a peaceful revolution, and a very beneficent
one; and yet that has not convinced the average
man that they are intelligent, and have courage and
energy and perseverance and fortitude. It takes
much to convince the average man of anything; and
perhaps nothing can ever make him realize that he
is the average woman's inferior — yet in several im-
portant details the evidence seems to show that that
is what he is. Man has ruled the human race from
the beginning — but he should remember that up to
the middle of the present century it was a dull world,
and ignorant and stupid; but it is not such a dull
world now, and is growing less and less dull all the
time. This is woman's opportunity — she has had
none before. I wonder where man will be in another
forty-seven years?

In New Zealand law occurs this: "The word
person wherever it occurs throughout the Act in-
cludes woman."

That is promotion, you see. By that enlargement
of the word, the matron with the garnered wisdom
and experience of fifty years becomes at one jump
the political equal of her callow kid of twenty-one.
The white population of the colony is six hundred
and twenty-six thousand, the Maori population is
forty-two thousand. The whites elect seventy mem-
bers of the House of Representatives, the Maoris

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four. The Maori women vote for their four mem-
bers.

November 16. After four pleasant days in Christ-
church, we are to leave at midnight to-night. Mr.
Kinsey gave me an ornithorhyncus, and I am tam-
ing it.

Sunday, 17. Sailed last night in the Flora, from
Lyttelton.

So we did. I remember it yet. The people who
sailed in the Flora that night may forget some other
things if they live a good while, but they will not live
long enough to forget that. The Flora is about the
equivalent of a cattle-scow; but when the Union
Company find it inconvenient to keep a contract and
lucrative to break it, they smuggle her into passenger
service, and "keep the change."

They give no notice of their projected depredation ;
you innocently buy tickets for the advertised passen-
ger-boat, and when you get down to Lyttelton at
midnight, you find that they have substituted the
scow. They have plenty of good boats, but no com-
petition— and that is the trouble. It is too late now
to make other arrangements if you have engage-
ments ahead.

It is a powerful company, it has a monopoly, and
everybody is afraid of it — including the govern-
ment's representative, who stands at the end of the
stage-plank to tally the passengers and see that no
boat receives a greater number than the law allows
her to carry. This conveniently blind representative
saw the scow receive a number which was far in
excess of its privilege, and winked a politic wink and

287

MARK TWAIN

said nothing. The passengers bore with meekness
the cheat which had been put upon them, and made
no complaint.

It was like being at home in America, where
abused passengers act in just the same way. A few
days before, the Union Company had discharged a
captain for getting a boat into danger, and had
advertised this act as evidence of its vigilance in
looking after the safety of the passengers — for thug-
ging a captain costs a company nothing; but when
opportunity offered to send this dangerously over-
crowded tub to sea and save a little trouble and a
tidy penny by it, it forgot to worry about the pas-
sengers' safety.

The first officer told me that the Flora was privi-
leged to cany one hundred and twenty-five passen-
gers. She must have had all of two hundred on
board. All the cabins were full, all the cattle-stalls
in the main stable were full, the spaces at the heads
of companionways were full, every inch of floor and
table in the swill-room was packed with sleeping
men and remained so until the place was required
for breakfast, all the chairs and benches on the
hurricane-deck were occupied, and still there were*
people who had to walk about all night!

If the Flora had gone down that night, half of the
people on board would have been wholly without
means of escape.

The owners of that boat were not technically
guilty of conspiracy to commit murder, but they
were morally guilty of it.

I had a cattle-stall in the main stable — a cavern

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fitted up with a long double file of two-storied bunks,,
the files separated by a calico partition — twenty men
and boys on one side of it, twenty women and girls
on the other. The place was as dark as the soul of
the Union Compan}-, and smelt like a kennel. When
the vessel got out into the heavy seas and began to
pitch and wallow, the cavern prisoners became im-
mediately seasick, and then the peculiar results that
ensued laid all my previous experiences of the kind
well away in the shade. And the wails, the groans,
the cries, the shrieks, the strange ejaculations — it
was wonderful.

The women and children and some of the men and
boys spent the night in that place, for they were too
ill to leave it ; but the rest of us got up, by and by,
and finished the night on the hurricane-deck.

That boat was the foulest I was ever in; and
the smell of the breakfast saloon when we threaded
our way among the layers of steaming passengers
stretched upon its floor and its tables was incom-
parable for efficiency.

A good man}' of us got ashore at the first way-port
to seek another ship. After a wait of three hours
we got good rooms in the Mahinapua, a wee little
bridal parlor of a boat — only two hundred and five
tons burthen; clean and comfortable; good service;
good beds; good table, and no crowding. The seas
danced her about like a duck, but she was safe and
capable.

Next morning early she went through the French
Pass — a narrow gateway of rock, between bold head-
lands— so narrow, in fact, that it seemed no wider

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MARK TWAIN

than a street. The current tore through there like
a mill-race, and the boat darted through like a tele-
gram. The passage was made in half a minute;
then we were in a wide place where noble vast eddies
swept grandly round and round in shoal-water, and
I wondered what they would do with the little boat.
They did as they pleased with her. They picked
her up and flung her around like nothing and landed
her gently on the solid, smooth bottom of sand — so
gently, indeed, that we barely felt her touch it, barely
felt her quiver when she came to a standstill. The
water was as clear as glass, the sand on the bottom
was vividly distinct, and the fishes seemed to be
swimming about in nothing. Fishing-lines were
brought out, but before we could bait the hooks the
boat was off and away again,

290

CHAPTER XXXIII

Let us be grateful to Adam our benefactor. Ke cut us out of the "blessing"
of idleness and won for us the " curse'' of labor.

— Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WE soon reached the town of Nelson, and spent
the most of the day there, visiting acquaint-
ances and driving with them about the garden — the
whole region is a garden, excepting the scene of the
" Maungatapu Murders," of thirty years ago. That
is a wild place — wild and lonely; an ideal place for
a murder. It is at the base of a vast, rugged,
densely timbered mountain. In the deep twilight of
that forest solitude four desperate rascals — Burgess,
Sullivan, Levy, and Kelley — ambushed themselves
beside the mountain trail to murder and rob four
travelers — Kempthorne, Mathieu, Dudley, and De
Pontius, the latter a New-Yorker. A harmless old
laboring -man came wandering along, and, as his
presence was an embarrassment, they choked him,
hid him, and then resumed their watch for the four.
They had to wait awhile, but eventually everything
turned out as they desired.

That dark episode is the one large event in the
history of Nelson. The fame of it traveled far.
Burgess made a confession. It is a remarkable
paper. For brevity, succinctness, and concentration,
it is perhaps without its peer in the literature of

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MARK TWAIN

murder. There are no waste words in it ; there is no
obtrusion of matter not pertinent to the occasion,
nor any departure from the dispassionate tone proper
to a formal business statement — for that is what it
is: a business statement of a murder, by the chief
engineer of it, or superintendent, or foreman, or
whatever one may prefer to call him.

We were getting impatient, when we saw four men and a pack-
horse coming. I left my cover and had a look at the men, for
Levy had told me that Mathieu was a small man and wore a
large beard, and that it was a chestnut horse. I said, " Here
they come." They were then a good distance away; I took the
caps off my gun, and put fresh ones on. I said, " You keep where
you are, I'll put them up, and you give me your gun while you
tie them." It was arranged as I have described. The men
came; they arrived within about fifteen yards, when I stepped
up and said, " Stand! bail up!" That means all of them to get
together. I made them fall back on the upper side of the road
with their faces up the range, and Sullivan brought me his gun,
and then tied their hands behind them. The horse was very
quiet all the time, he did not move. When they were all tied,
Sullivan took the horse up the hill, and put him in the bush;
he cut the rope and let the swags * fall on the ground, and then
came to me. We then marched the men down the incline to
the creek; the water at this time barely running. Up this
creek we took the men; we went, I dare say, five or six hundred
yards up it, which took us nearly half an hour to accomplish.
Then we turned to the right up the range; we went, I dare say,
one hundred and fifty yards from the creek, and there we sat
down with the men. I said to Sullivan, "Put down your gun
and search these men," which he did. I asked them their
several names; they told me. I asked them if they were
expected at Nelson. They said, "No." If such their lives
would have been spared. In money we took sixty pounds odd.
I said, " Is this all you have? You had better tell me." Sullivan
said, "Here is a bag of geld." I said, "What's on that pack-
horse? Is there any gold?" when Kempthorne said, "Yes, my

*A "swag" is a kit, a pack, small baggage.
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gold is in the portmanteau, and I trust you will not take it all."
"Well," I said, "we must take you away one at a time, because
the range is steep just here, and then we will let you go." They
said, "All right," most cheerfully. We tied their feet, and took
Dudley with us; we went about sixty yards with him. This
was through a scrub. It was arranged the night previously that
it would be best to choke them, in case the report of the arms
might be heard from the road, and if they were missed they
never would be found. So we tied a handkerchief over his eyes,
when Sullivan took the sash off his waist, put it round his neck,
and so strangled him. Sullivan, after I had killed the old
laboring-man, found fault with the way he was choked. He
said, "The next we do I'll show you my way." I said, "I have
never done such a thing before. I have shot a man, but never
choked one." We returned to the others, when Kempthorne
said, "What noise was that?" I said it was caused by breaking
through the scrub. This was taking too much time, so it was
agreed to shoot them. With that I said, "We'll take you no
further, but separate you, and then loose one of you, and he can
relieve the others." So with that, Sullivan took De Pontius
to the left of where Kempthorne was sitting. I took Mathieu
to the right. I tied a strap round his legs, and shot him with
a revolver. He yelled, I ran from him with my gun in my hand,
I sighted Kempthorne, who had risen to his feet. I presented
the gun, and shot him behind the right ear; his life's blood welled
from him, and he died instantaneously. Sullivan had shot
De Pontius in the mean time, and then came to me. I said,
"Look to Mathieu," indicating the spot where he lay. He
shortly returned and said, "I had to 'chiv' that fellow, he was
not dead," a cant word, meaning that he had to stab him.
Returning to the road we passed where De Pontius lay and was
dead. Sullivan said, "This is the digger, the others were all
storekeepers; this is the digger, let's cover him up, for should
the others be found, they'll think he done it and sloped," meaning
he had gone. So with that we threw all the stones on him,
and then left him. This bloody work took nearly an hour and
a half from the time we stopped the men.

Any one who reads that confession will think that
the man who wrote it was destitute of emotions,

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MARK TWAIN

destitute of feeling. That is partly true. As regarded
others he was plainly without feeling — utterly cold
and pitiless; but as regarded himself the case was
different. While he cared nothing for the future of
the murdered men, he cared a great deal for his own.
It makes one's flesh creep to read the introduction
to his confession. The judge on the bench char-
acterized it as "scandalously blasphemous," and it
certainly reads so, but Burgess meant no blasphemy.
He was merely a brute, and whatever he said or
wrote was sure to expose the fact. His redemption
was a very real thing to him, and he was as jubi-
lantly happy on the gallows as ever was Christian
martyr at the stake. We dwellers in this world are
strangely made, and mysteriously circumstanced.
Weliave to suppose that the murdered men are lost,
and that Burgess is saved; but we cannot suppress
our natural regrets :

Written in my dungeon drear this 7th of August, in the year of
Grace, 1S66. To God be ascribed all power and glory in sub-
duing the rebellious spirit of a most guilty wretch, who has been
brought, through the instrumentality of a faithful follower of
Christ, to see his wretched and guilty state, inasmuch as hitherto
he has led an awful and wretched life, and through the assurance
of this faithful soldier of Christ, he has been led and also believes
that Christ will yet receive and cleanse him from all his deep-
dyed and bloody sins. I lie under the imputation which says,
"Come now and let us reason together, saith the Lord; though
•your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though
they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." On this
promise I rely.

We sailed in the afternoon late, spent a few hours
at New Plymouth, then sailed again and reached
Auckland the next day, November 20th, and re-

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mained in that fine city several days. Its situation
is commanding, and the sea view is superb. There
are charming drives all about, and by courtesy of
friends we had opportunity to enjoy them. From
the grassy" crater-summit of Mount Eden one's eye
ranges over a grand sweep and variety of scenery —
forests clothed in luxuriant foliage, rolling green
fields, conflagrations of flowers, receding and dim-
ming stretches of green plain, broken by lofty and
symmetrical old craters — then the blue bays twink-
ling and sparkling away into the dreamy distances
where the mountains loom spiritual in their veils
of haze.

It is from Auckland that one goes to Rotorua, the
region of the renowned hot lakes and geysers — one
of the chief wonders of New Zealand ; but I was not
well enough to make the trip. The government has
a sanitarium there, and everything is comfortable
for the tourist and the invalid. The government's
official physician is almost over-cautious in his
estimates of the efficacy of the baths, when he is
talking about rheumatism, gout, paralysis, and such
things; but when he is talking about the effective-
ness of the waters in eradicating the whisky-habit, he
seems to have no reserves. The baths will cure the
drinking-habit no matter how chronic it is — and
cure it so effectually that even the desire to drink
intoxicants will come no more. There should be a
rush from Europe and America to that place; and
when the victims of alcoholism find out what they
can get by going there, the rush will begin.

The Thermal-springs District of New Zealand

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MARK TWAIN

comprises an area of upward of six hundred thousand
acres, or close on one thousand square miles. Ro-
torua is the favorite place. It is the center of a rich
field of lake and mountain scenery; from Rotonia
as a base the pleasure-seeker makes excursions. The
crowd of sick people is great, and growing. Rotorua
is the Carlsbad of Australasia.

It is from Auckland that the Kauri gum is shipped.
For a long time now about eight thousand tons of
it have been brought into the town per year. It is
worth about three hundred dollars per ton, unas-
sorted; assorted, the finest grades are worth about
one thousand dollars. It goes to America, chiefly. It
is in lumps, and is hard and smooth, and looks like
amber — the light colored like new amber, and the
dark brown like rich old amber. And it has the
pleasant feel of amber, too. Some of the light-colored
samples were a tolerably fair counterfeit of uncut
South African diamonds, they were so perfectly
smooth and polished and transparent. It is manu-
factured into varnish; a varnish which answers for
copal varnish and is cheaper.

The gum is dug up out of the ground ; it has been
there for ages. It is the sap of the Kauri tree.
Dr. Campbell of Auckland told me he sent a cargo
of it to England fifty years ago, but nothing came
of the venture. Nobody knew what to do with it;
so it was sold at five pounds a ton, to light fires
with.

November 26 — 3 p.m., sailed. Vast and beautiful
harbor. Land all about for hours. Tangariwa, the
mountain that "has the same shape from every point

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of view." That is the common belief in Auckland.
And so it has — from every point of view except
thirteen. . . . Perfect summer weather. Large school
of whales in the distance. Nothing could be
daintier than the puffs of vapor they spout up,
when seen against the pink glory of the sinking sun,
or against the dark mass of an island reposing in
the deep blue shadow of a storm-cloud. . . . Great
Barrier rock standing up out of the sea away to
the left. Some time ago a ship hit it full speed in a
fog — twenty miles out of her course — one hundred
and forty lives lost; the captain committed suicide
without waiting a moment. He knew that, whether
he was to blame or not, the company owning the
vessel would discharge him and make a devotion-to-
passengers'-safety advertisement out of it, and his
chance to make a livelihood would be permanently
gone.

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CHAPTER XXXIV

Let us not be too particular. It is better to have old second-hand diamonds
than none at all. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Ik J OV EMBER 27. To-day we reached Gisborne,
J. Y and anchored in a big bay; there was a heavy
sea on, so we remained on board.

We were a mile from shore; a little steam-tug
put out from the land ; she was an object of thrilling
interest ; she would climb to the summit of a billow,
reel drunkenly there a moment, dim and gray in
the driving storm of spindrift, then make a plunge
like a diver, and remain out of sight until one had
given her up, then up she would dart again, on a
steep slant toward the sky, shedding Niagaras of
water from her forecastle — and this she kept up,
all the way out to us. She brought twenty-five
passengers in her stomach — men and women —
mainly a traveling dramatic company. In sight on
deck were the crew, in sou'westers, yellow water-
proof canvas suits, and boots to the thigh. The
deck was never quiet for a moment, and seldom
nearer level than a ladder, and noble were the seas
which leaped aboard and went flooding aft. We
rove a long line to the yard-arm, hung a most
primitive basket-chair to it, and swung it out into
the spacious air of heaven, and there it swayed,

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pendulum-fashion, waiting for its chance — then
down it shot, skilfully aimed, and was grabbed by
the two men on the forecastle. A young fellow
belonging to our crew was in the chair, to be a pro-
tection to the lady-comers. At once a couple of
ladies appeared from below, took seats in his lap,
we hoisted them into the sky, waited a moment till
the roll of the ship brought them in, overhead, then
we lowered suddenly away, and seized the chair
as it struck the deck. We took the twenty-five
aboard, and delivered twenty-five into the tug —
among them several aged ladies, and one blind one —
and all without accident. It was a fine piece of work.

Ours is a nice ship, roomy, comfortable, well
ordered, and satisfactory. Now and then we step
on a rat in a hotel, but we have had no rats on ship-
board lately; unless, perhaps, in the Flora; we had
more serious things to think of there, and did not
notice. I have noticed that it is only in ships and
hotels which still employ the odious Chinese gong,
that you find rats. The reason would seem to be,
that as a rat cannot tell the time of day by a clock,
he won't stay where he cannot find out when dinner
is ready.

November 2Q. The doctor tells me of several old
drunkards, one spiritless loafer, and several far-gone
.moral wrecks who have been reclaimed by the Sal-
vation Army and have remained stanch people and
hard workers these two years. Wherever one goes,
these testimonials to the Army's efficiency are forth-
coming. . . . This morning we had one of those
whizzing green Ballarat flies in the room, with his

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MARK TWAIN

stunning buzz-saw noise — the swiftest creature ip
the world except the lightning-flash. It is a stupen-
dous force that is stored up in that little body. If
we had it in a ship in the same proportion, we could
spin from Liverpool to New York in the space of
an hour — the time it takes to eat luncheon. The
New Zealand express train is called the Ballarat
Fly. . . . Bad teeth in the colonies. A citizen told
me they don't have teeth filled, but pull them out
and put in false ones, and that now and then one
sees a young lady with a full set. She is fortunate.
I wish I had been born with false teeth and a false
liver and false carbuncles. I should get along better.
December 2 — Monday. Left Napier in the Bal-
larat Fly — the one that goes twice a week. From
Napier to Hastings, twelve miles; time, fifty-five
minutes — not so far short of thirteen miles an
hour. ... A perfect summer day; cool breeze, bril-
liant sky, rich vegetation. Two or three times
during the afternoon we saw wonderfully dense and
beautiful forests, tumultuously piled skyward on the
broken highlands — not the customary rooflike slant
of a hillside, where the trees are all the same height.
The noblest of these trees were of the Kauri breed,
we were told — the timber that is now furnishing the
wood-paving for Europe, and is the best of all wood
for that purpose. Sometimes these towering up-
heavals of forestry were festooned and garlanded
with vine-cables, and sometimes the masses of
undergrowth were cocooned in another sort of vine
of a delicate cobwebby texture — they call it the
4 'supple-jack," I think. Tree-ferns everywhere—

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a stem fifteen feet high, with a graceful chalice of
fern-fronds sprouting from its top — a lovely forest
ornament. And there was a ten-foot reed with a
flowing suit of what looked like yellow hair hanging
from its upper end. I do not know its name, but if
there is such a thing as a scalp plant, this is it. A
romantic gorge, with a brook flowing in its bottom,
approaching Palmerston North.

Waitukurau. Twenty minutes for luncheon. With
me sat my wife and daughter, and my manager,
Mr. Carlyle Smythe. I sat at the head of the table,
and could see the right-hand wall; the others had
their backs to it. On that wall, at a good distance
away, were a couple of framed pictures,. I could not
see them clearly, but from the groupings of the figures
I fancied that they represented the killing of Napo-
leon III.'s son by the Zulus in South Africa. I
broke into the conversation, which was about poetry
and cabbage and art, and said to my wife:

"Do you remember when the news came to
Paris—"

"Of the killing of the Prince?"

(Those were the very words I had in my mind.)

"Yes, but what Prince?"

"Napoleon. Lulu."

"What made you think of that?"

"I don't know."

There was no collusion. She had not seen the
pictures, and they had not been mentioned. She
ought to have thought of some recent news that
came to Paris, for we were but seven months from
there and had been living there a couple of years

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MARK TWAIN

when we started on this trip; but instead of thai
she thought of an incident of our brief sojourn io
Paris of sixteen years before.

Here was a clear case of mental telegraphy; of
mind-transference; of my mind telegraphing a
thought into hers. How do I know? Because I
telegraphed an error. For it turned out that the
pictures did not represent the killing of Lulu at all,
nor anything connected with Lulu. She had to get
the error from my head — it existed nowhere else.

302

CHAPTER XXXV

The Autocrat of Russia possesses more power than any other man in the earth;
but he cannot stop a sneeze. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WANGANUI, December 3. A pleasant trip, yes-
terday, per Ballarat Fly. Four hours. I do
not know the distance, but it must have been well
along toward fifty miles. The Fly could have spun
it out to eight hours and not discommoded me; for
where there is comfort, and no need for hurry, speed
is of no value — at least to me; and nothing that
goes on wheels can be more comfortable, more
satisfactory, than the New Zealand trains. Outside
of America there are no cars that are so rationally
devised. When you add the constant presence of
charming scenery and the nearly constant absence
of dust — well, if one is not content then, he ought
to get out and walk. That would change his spirit,
perhaps; I think so. At the end of an hour you
would find him waiting humbly beside the track,
and glad to be taken aboard again.

Much horseback-riding in and around this town;
many comely girls in cool and pretty summer gowns ;
much Salvation Army; lots of Maoris; the faces
and bodies of some of the old ones very tastefully
frescoed. Maori Council House over the river —
large, strong, carpeted from end to end with matting,

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MARK TWAIN

and decorated with elaborate wood-carvings, artist-
ically executed. The Maoris were very polite.

I was assured by a member of the House of
Representatives that the native race is not decreas-
ing, but actually increasing slightly. It is another
evidence that they are a superior breed of savages.
I do not call to mind any savage race that built such
good houses, or such strong and ingenious and scien-
tific fortresses, or gave so much attention to agricul-
ture, or had military arts and devices which so
nearly approached- the white man's. These, taken
together with their high abilities in boat-building,
and their tastes and capacities in the ornamental
arts, modify their savagery to a semi-civilization —
or at least to a quarter-civilization.

It is a compliment to them that the British did
not exterminate them, as they did the Australians
and the Tasmanians, but were content with subduing
them, and showed no desire to go further. And it
is another compliment to them that the British did
not take the whole of their choicest lands, but left
them a considerable part, and then went further and
protected them from the rapacities of land-sharks —
a protection which the New Zealand Government
still extends to them. And it is still another com-
pliment to the Maoris that the government allows
native representation in both the legislature and
the cabinet, and gives both sexes the vote. And in
doing these things the government also compliments
itself. It has not been the custom of the world for
conquerors to act in this large spirit toward the
conquered.

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The highest-class white men who lived among the
Maoris in the earliest time had a high opinion of
them and a strong affection for them. Among the
whites of this sort was the author of Old New Zealand ■
and Dr. Campbell of Auckland was another. Dr.
Campbell was a close friend of several chiefs, and
has many pleasant things to say of their fidelity,
their magnanimity, and their generosity. Also of
their quaint notions about the white man's queer
civilization, and their equally quaint comments upon
it. One of them thought the missionary had got
everything wrong end first and upside down. ' ' Why,
he wants us to stop worshiping and supplicating
the evil gods, and go to worshiping and supplicating
the Good One! There is no sense in that. A good
god is not going to do us any harm."

The Maoris had the tabu; and had it on a Poly-
nesian scale of comprehensiveness and elaboration.
Some of its features could have been importations
from India and Judea. Neither the Maori nor the
Hindu of common degree could cook by a fire that
a person of higher caste had used, nor could the
high Maori or high Hindu employ fire that had
served a man of low grade; if a low-grade Maori or
Hindu drank from a vessel belonging to a high-
grade man, the vessel was defiled, and had to be
destroyed. There were other resemblances between
Maori tabu and Hindu caste-custom.

Yesterday a lunatic burst into my quarters and
warned me that the Jesuits were going to "cook"
(poison) me in my food, or kill me on the stage at
night. He said a mysterious sign 0 was visible upon

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MARK TWAIN

my posters and meant my death. He said he saved
Rev. Mr. Haweis's life by warning him that there
were three men on his platform who would kill
him if he took his eyes off them for a moment
during his lecture. The same men were in my audi-
ence last night, but they saw that he was there.
"Will they be here again to-night?" He hesitated;
then said no, he thought they would rather take a
rest and chance the poison. This lunatic has no
delicacy. But he was not uninteresting. He told
me a lot of things. He said he had "saved so many
lecturers in twenty 3^ears, that they put him in the
asylum.' " I think he has less refinement than any
lunatic I have met.

December 8. A couple of curious war-monuments
here at Wanganui. One is in honor of white men
"who fell in defense of law and order against fanati-
cism and barbarism." Fanaticism. We Americans
are English in blood, English in speech, English in
religion, English in the essentials of our govern-
mental system, English in the essentials of our
civilization; and so, let us hope, for the honor of
the blend, for the honor of the blood, for the honor
of the race, that that word got there through lack
of needfulness, and will not be suffered to remain.
If you carve it at Thermopylae, or where Winkelried
died, or upon Bunker Hill monument, and read
it again — -"who fell in defense of law and order
against fanaticism" — you will perceive what the
word means, and how mischosen it is. Patriotism
is Patriotism. Calling it Fanaticism cannot degrade
it; nothing can degrade it. Even though it be a

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political mistake, and a thousand times a political
mistake, that does not affect it; it is honorable — ■
always honorable, always noble — and privileged to
hold its head up and look the nations in the face.
It is right to praise these brave white men who fell
in the Maori war — they deserve it ; but the presence
of that wTord detracts from the dignity of their cause
and their deeds, and makes them appear to have
spilled their blood in a conflict with ignoble men,
men not worthy of that costly sacrifice. But the
men were worthy. It was no shame to fight them.
They fought for their homes, they fought for their
country; they bravely fought and bravely fell;
and it would take nothing from the honor of the
brave Englishmen who He under the monument,
but add to it, to say that they died in defense of
English laws and English homes against men worthy
of the sacrifice — the Maori patriots.

The other monument cannot be rectified. Except
with dynamite. It is a mistake all through, and a
strangely thoughtless one. It is a monument erected
by white men to Maoris who fell fighting with the
whites and against their own people, in the Maori
war. "Sacred to the memory of the brave men
who fell on the 14th of May, 1864," etc. On one
side are the names of about twenty Maoris. It is
not a fancy of mine; the monument exists. I saw
it. It is an object-lesson to the rising generation.
It invites to treachery, disloyalty, unpatriotism. Its
lesson, in frank terms is, "Desert your flag, slay
your people, burn their homes, shame your nation-
ality— we honor such."

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MARK TWAIN

December g. Wellington. Ten hours from Wan-
ganui by the Fly.

December 12. It is a fine city and nobly situated.
A busy place, and full of life and movement. Have
spent the three days partly in walking about, partly
in enjoying social privileges, and largely in idling
around the magnificent garden at Hutt, a little dis-
tance away, around the shore. I suppose we shall
not see such another one soon.

We are packing to-night for the return- voyage to
Australia. Our stay in New Zealand has been too
brief; still, we are not unthankful for the glimpse
which we have had of it.

The sturdy Maoris made the settlement of the
country by the whites rather difficult. Not at first —
but later. At first they welcomed the whites, and
were eager to trade with them — particularly for
muskets; for their pastime was internecine war,
and they greatly preferred the white man's weapons
to their own. War was their pastime — I use the
word advisedly. They often met and slaughtered
each other just for a lark, and when there was no
quarrel. The author of Old New Zealand mentions
a case where a victorious army could have followed
up its advantage and exterminated the opposing
army, but declined to do it ; explaining naively that
"if we did that, there couldn't be any more fighting."
In another battle one army sent word that it was
out of ammunition, and would be obliged to stop
unless the opposing army would send some. It was
sent, and the fight went on.

In the early days things went well enough. The

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natives sold land without clearly understanding the
terms of exchange, and the whites bought it without
being much disturbed about the native's confusion
of mind. But by and by the Maori began to com-
prehend that he was being wronged ; then there was
trouble, for he was not the man to swallow a wrong
and go aside and cry about it. He had the Tas-
manian's spirit and endurance, and a notable share
of military science besides; and so he rose against
the oppressor, did this gallant "fanatic," and
started a war that was not brought to a definite end
until more than a generation had sped.

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CHAPTER XXXVI

There are several good protections against temptations, but the surest is cow-
ardice. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Names are not always what they seem. The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwcp
is pronounced Jackson. — Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

JJ\RIDAY, December 13. Sailed, at 3 p.m., in the
JO Mararoa. Summer seas and a good ship — life
has nothing better.

Monday. Three days of paradise. Warm and
sunny and smooth; the sea a luminous Mediterra-
nean blue. . . . One lolls in a long chair all day
under deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in meas-
ureless content. One does not read prose at such a
time, but poetry. I have been reading the poems of
Mrs. Julia A. Moore, again, and I find in them
the same grace and melody that attracted me when
they were first published, twenty years ago, and have
held me in happy bonds ever since. The Senti-
mental Song Book has long been out of print, and
has been forgotten by the world in general, but not
by me. I carry it with me always — it and Gold-
smith's deathless story. . . . Indeed, it has the same
deep charm for me that the Vicar of Wakefield has,
and I find in it the same subtle touch — the touch
that makes an intentionally humorous episode pa-
thetic and an intentionally pathetic one funny. In
her time Mrs. Moore was called "the Sweet Singer

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of Michigan," and was best known by that name. I
have read her book through twice to-day, with the
purpose of determining which of her pieces has most
merit, and I am persuaded that for wide grasp and
sustained power, "William Upson" may claim first
place :

WILLIAM UPSON

Air— "The Major's Only Son "

Come all good people far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It's of a young man true and brave,
That is now sleeping in his grave.

Now, William Upson was his name —
If it's not that, it's all the same —
He did enlist in a cruel strife,
And it caused him to lose his life.

He was Perry Upson's eldest son,
His father loved his noble son,
This son was nineteen years of age
When first in the rebellion he engaged.

His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no,
"Oh! stay at home, dear Billy," she said,
But she could not turn his head.

He went to Nashville, in Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, so far away,
They did not know where his body lay.

He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And Oh! how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
For Billy has gone to his heavenly home.

311

MARK TWAIN

Oh! if his mother could have seen her son,

For she loved him, her darling son;

If she could heard his dying prayer,

It would ease her heart till she met him there.

How it would relieve his mother's heart
To see her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.

Now it will relieve his mother's heart,
For her son is laid in our graveyard;
For now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.

Although she knows not that it was her son,
For his coffin could not be opened —
It might be some one in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.

December 17. Reached Sydney.

December ig. In the train. Fellow of thirty with
four valises; a slim creature, with teeth which made
his mouth look like a neglected churchyard. He
had solidified hair — solidified with pomatum ; it was
all one shell. He smoked the most extraordinary
cigarettes — made of some kind of manure, appar-
ently. These and his hair made him smell like the
very nation. He had a low-cut vest on, which
exposed a deal of frayed and broken and unclean
shirt-front. Showy studs, of imitation gold — they
had made black disks on the linen. Oversized sleeve-
buttons of imitation gold, the copper base showing
that. Ponderous watch-chain of imitation gold. I
judge he couldn't tell the time by it, for he asked
Smythe what time it was, once. He wore a coat

312

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

which had been gay when it was young; five-o' clock-
tea trousers of a light tint, and marvelously soiled;
yellow mustache with a dashing upward whirl at the
ends; foxy shoes, imitation patent leather. He was
a novelty — an imitation dude. He would have been
a real one if he could have afforded it. But he was
satisfied with himself. You could see it in his ex-
pression, and in all his attitudes and movements.
He was living in a dude dreamland where all his
squalid shams were genuine, and himself a sincerity.
It disarmed criticism, it mollified spite, to see him so
enjoy his imitation languors, and arts, and airs, and
his studied daintinesses of gesture and misbegotten
refinements. It was plain to me that he was imagin-
ing himself the Prince of Wales, and was doing every-
thing the way he thought the Prince would do it.
For bringing his four valises aboard and stowing
them in the nettings, he gave his porter four cents,
and lightly apologized for the smallness of the
gratuity — just with the condescendingest little royal
air in the world. He stretched himself out on the
front seat and rested his pomatum-cake on the mid-
dle arm, and stuck his feet out of the window, and
began to pose as the Prince and work his dreams and
languors for exhibition; and he would indolently
watch the blue films curling up from his cigarette,
and inhale the stench, and look so grateful; and
would flip the ash away with the daintiest gesture,
unintentionally displaying his brass ring in the most
intentional way; why, it was as good as being in
Marlborough House itself to see him do it so like.
There was other scenery in the trip. That of the

3i3

MARK TWAIN

Hawksbury River, in the National Park region, fine — >
extraordinarily fine, with spacious views of stream
and lake imposingly framed in woody hills; and
every now and then the noblest groupings of moun-
tains, and the most enchanting rearrangements of
the water effects. Further along, green flats, thinly
covered with gum forests, with here and there the
huts and cabins of small farmers engaged in raising
children. Still further along, arid stretches, lifeless
and melancholy. Then Newcastle, a rushing town,
capital of the rich coal regions. Approaching Scone,
wide farming and grazing levels, with pretty frequent
glimpses of a troublesome plant — a particularly
devilish little prickly pear, daily damned in the
orisons of the agriculturist; imported by a lady of
sentiment, and contributed gratis to the colony. . . .
Blazing hot, all day.

December 20. Back to Sydney. Blazing hot again.
From the newspaper, and from the map, I have
made a collection of curious names of Australasian
towns, with the idea of making a poem out of them :

Tumut

Waitpinga

Wollongong

Takee

Goelwa

Woolloomooloo

Murriwillumba

Munno Para

Bombola

Bowral

Nangkita

Coolgardie

Ballarat

Myponga

Bendigo

Mullengudgory

Kapunda

Coonamble

Murrurundi

Kooringa

Cootamundra

Wagga-Wagga

Penola

Woolgoolga

Wyalong

Nangwarry

Mittagong

Murrumbidgee

Kongorong

Jamberoo

Goomeroo

Comaum

Kondoparinga

Wolloway

Koolywurtie

Kuitpo

Wangary

Killanoola

Tungkillo

3J4

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

Wanilla

Worrow

Koppio

Yankalilla

Yaranyacka

Yackamoorundie

Kaiwaka

Goomooroo

Tauranga

Geelong

Tongariro

Kaikoura

Wakatipu

Oohipara

Naracoorte

Muloowurtie

Binnura

Wallaroo

Wirrega

Mundoora

Hauraki

Rangiriri

Teawamute

Taranaki

Toowoomba

Goondiwindi

Jerrilderie

Whangaroa

Oukaparinga

Talunga

Yatala

Parawirra

Moorooroo

Whangarei

Woolundunga

Booleroo

Pernatty'

Parramatta

Taroom

Narrandera

Deniliquin

Kawakawa

It may be best to build the poem now, and make
weather help :

A SWELTERING DAY IN AUSTRALIA
{To be read soft and low, with the lights turned down)

The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree,
Where fierce Mullengudgery's smothering fires

Far from the breezes of Coolgardie

Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires;

And Murriwillumba complaineth in song
For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo,

And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong
They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo;

The wallabi sighs for the Murrumbidgee,
For the velvety sod of the Munno Para/:,

Where the waters of healing from Muloowurft'e
Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyac£a/z;

The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway,
And sigheth in secret for MurrurunJi,

The Whangaroa wombat lamenteth the day
That made him an exile from Jerrildera;

3*5

Vol. 15 K— M. T,

MARK TWAIN

The Teawamute Tumut from Wirrega's glade,
The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan,

They long for the peace of the Timaru shade
And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong!

The Kooringa buffalo pants in the sun,
The Kondoparinga lies gaping for breath,

The Kongorong Comaum to the shadow has won,
But the Goomeroo sinks in the slumber of death

In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain
The Yatala Wangary withers and dies,

And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain,
To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies;

Sweet Nangwarry's desolate, Coonamble wails,
And Tungkillo Kuitpo in sables is drest,

For the Whangarei winds fall asleep in the sails
And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west,

Myponga, Kapunda, 0 slumber no more!

Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned!
There's death in the air! Killanoola, wherefore

Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned?

Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu,

Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost!
From Oukaparinga to far Oamaru

All burn in this hell's holocaust!

Parramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest

In the vale of Tapanni Taroom,
Kawakawa, Deniliquin — all that was best

In the earth are but graves and a tomb!

Narrandera mourns, Cameroo answers not
When the roll of the scathless we cry:

Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot
Is mute and forlorn where ye lie.

316

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR

Those are good words for poetry. Among the
best I have ever seen. There are eighty-one in the
list. I did not need them all, but I have knocked
down sixty-six of them; which is a good bag, it
seems to me, for a person not in the business. Per-
haps a poet laureate could do better, but a poet
laureate gets wages, and that is different. When I
write poetry I do not get any wages; often I lose
money by it. The best word in that list, and the
most musical and gurgly, is Woolloomooloo. It is
a place near Sydney, and is a favorite pleasure resort.
It has eight O's in it.

END OF VOL. I

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v. 15

Clemens, Samuel Langhorne
The writings of Mark Twain

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